Recently, the state of New York passed some new abortion laws. It was emotionally very hard for me to scroll through Facebook to see many inflammatory "articles" or commentaries from clearly biased news sources or Facebook personalities being shared over and over again. I read comments from people filled with outrage, decrying that they would NEVER murder their child. Murder is a very loaded term. And it is all too easy these days to speak in sound bites - which might catch everyone's attention but also shows a lack of consideration for the nuances of life.
I didn't see as many articles "celebrating" the new law that would allow women to "murder their children right up until birth" (although I am sure there are those people out there), but I did see friends who are staunch supporters of a woman's right to choose comment about their support for women's access to increased reproductive rights.
I try not to begrudge people their views, whether they are the same or differ from mine. However, I think the way we talk to each other and about each other can be completely devoid of empathy or sympathy, and downright shameful. It is all too easy to draw attention with click bait headlines, to not check the veracity or bias of a news source, or to speak from upon a high horse about what you would do in a situation you've never actually been faced with. Or maybe you have been faced with it and made a different choice, but does that give you the right to be hateful to someone else who might not have had the "strength of character" or support system that you did?
I don't think we should ever celebrate the ending of a life, whether it is due to an abortion or executing a prisoner on death row. It is a very serious decision and one I think most people *in their right mind* wouldn't take lightly.
The thing is, there often aren't easy answers in life. Damned if you do, damned if you don't, as the saying goes. Every decision carries impacts - some we can foresee, and some we never could have guessed.
Hailey has been gone for a little over two years now, and yet when I picked my four year old son up from preschool on Valentine's Day, he was sobbing. Couldn't catch his breath, tears soaking his face, and a heartbreak reflected in his eyes that NO child that young should know. Why? Because he missed Hailey. Because it was "Love Day," as he calls it, and they were talking about love words. And he wanted to "hug Hailey and smooch her" but he couldn't because she was in Heaven. He sobbed that he wanted her to grow big. Can you imagine what seeing my son's grief, on top of my own, did to me in that moment? How he felt, at just four years old, to know a pain he can't even comprehend the enormity of?
As parents, we want to do everything in our power to protect our children. We dread the age when kids stop just openly loving everyone and start to notice differences. We want to strangle any kid that looks at our own child sideways or makes them feel excluded.
When we decided to try for another baby after losing Hailey, we knew there was a one in four chance the baby might have the same terminal genetic disorder and if so, wouldn't survive long after birth. I don't regret any part of my time with Hailey, but I have spoken honestly about how she suffered. And we suffered. And clearly we are ALL still suffering for having lost her.
When Hailey was sick, my son lost me to the hospital for the four months she was alive. The few times I left to go home for visits, I could barely hold it together to even just sit and hold him and watch a kid show with him. Or play blocks. I'd sit with him for ten minutes, then have to excuse myself to my room to sob for twenty minutes, and then I'd return to try to sit with him for ten more minutes. And even for that little time I was at home with my son, I felt wracked with guilt for leaving my daughter's bedside for even a moment. THINK about that. Look at your own children, and really try to imagine yourself in my position. I can't imagine how we would have managed or what balance we would have found if Hailey's battle had been a longer one.
Thankfully, when we did get pregnant with another baby girl, we were able to undergo genetic testing and found out our second daughter did NOT have Hailey's terminal genetic syndrome. I don't know what decision we would have made if she had: I prayed night and day that I wouldn't be faced with that. Some days, I think I know what I would have done, but I can't say for sure because I thankfully wasn't put in that position to have to find out for sure. Would I have spared the baby his or her physical suffering after birth, or placed more weight on sparing us ours for a baby who wasn't destined to survive? (I am not discounting aborting a baby as physical suffering to the child).
So, this post isn't to put forth an argument against abortion or for reproductive rights because I don't think people really change their minds on their core beliefs. What I hope to continue to provide is some perspective so that people can rediscover their sympathy and empathy. To understand that life isn't black and white and that the flashy headlines and dire soundbites wound people who are likely already hurting. As I sit here writing this blog post, I remember EVERY SINGLE PERSON who made inflammatory posts or comments when the New York abortion law was signed. I read all of the comments your supporters made. I am wondering if any of you are reading this blog post now, and if you are really HEARING me in your HEART.
Be pro-life, but PLEASE don't decry murdering babies. Be pro-choice, but PLEASE discuss abortion with the solemnity and respect it deserves as a decision to end a life.
And PLEASE know there are people and families who hear your words - and while the ones who support you may high-five you, and make you feel self-righteous or justified - the ones you've hurt will quietly go to bed with tears in their eyes and an ache in their heart. Because they just spent Valentine's Day trying to console their son who desperately misses his baby sister. Because they are thankful their second daughter was born healthy and they weren't faced with making an awful decision for which they STILL don't know what they would have chosen. But perhaps most importantly, because they fear what is becoming of the world around them.
PLEASE speak with love and a grateful heart. For all of our heartbreak in losing Hailey, if this blog post can give some real-life perspective and soften the words of even one person in the abortion debate (notice I didn't say change the opinion of - just SOFTEN the words of), I can draw a good deal of comfort in that.
<3
Wednesday, February 20, 2019
Tuesday, December 11, 2018
We Are ALL Entitled...
Entitled:/ adj. / Believing oneself to be inherently deserving of privileges or special treatment.
I'm not quite sure when the idea of entitlement took center stage in today's society. So often, we hear of the younger generations feeling "entitled", or of men or white folk being such simply by virtue of being born. No matter the frame of reference, the connotation always seems to be negative.
For example, you may say something that someone disagrees with, and they may cooly reply to you, "Well, you are entitled to your opinion." You can tell what they think of you then!
The only thing I would say any of us are entitled to in this life isn't even life itself, because I would argue that my daughter deserved to live as much as anyone else does. In death, Hailey taught me that the only thing we are truly entitled to is not so much our opinions, but our feelings.
I deserve to feel how I feel, because my experiences are mine and they are authentic to me. Take grief, for example. We all have a different relationship with it, which is part of why it is hard to come up with the perfect thing to say or do to comfort someone who is struggling with loss.
The truth is, you cannot tell someone how to be or not to be because then you are taking from them the one thing they are entitled to: their feeling of grief. You can stand beside them, and hold them, and love them and encourage them, but do not deny them their authenticity.
By the same token, while you are entitled to your feelings, do not give them away. So much of what I hear on TV or see online is written in a "click-bait" fashion. People shouting headlines to scare you or enrage you, or make you shake your head in despair about what the world is coming to. If you react to such emotional baiting, you are giving yourself over to fear, anger and sadness. You are allowing the writers of those headlines to own those pieces of you.
So this holiday season, my hope for everyone is that you feel entitled to your emotions. I hope you share with all of us pieces of your love, joy and happiness. I hope you are cautious about letting others steal you into a frenzy of negative emotions. And if you are trying to process through grief and loss, I hope you are surrounded by people who love you enough to love you through it, and at your own pace.
With love and a grateful heart.
I'm not quite sure when the idea of entitlement took center stage in today's society. So often, we hear of the younger generations feeling "entitled", or of men or white folk being such simply by virtue of being born. No matter the frame of reference, the connotation always seems to be negative.
For example, you may say something that someone disagrees with, and they may cooly reply to you, "Well, you are entitled to your opinion." You can tell what they think of you then!
The only thing I would say any of us are entitled to in this life isn't even life itself, because I would argue that my daughter deserved to live as much as anyone else does. In death, Hailey taught me that the only thing we are truly entitled to is not so much our opinions, but our feelings.
I deserve to feel how I feel, because my experiences are mine and they are authentic to me. Take grief, for example. We all have a different relationship with it, which is part of why it is hard to come up with the perfect thing to say or do to comfort someone who is struggling with loss.
The truth is, you cannot tell someone how to be or not to be because then you are taking from them the one thing they are entitled to: their feeling of grief. You can stand beside them, and hold them, and love them and encourage them, but do not deny them their authenticity.
By the same token, while you are entitled to your feelings, do not give them away. So much of what I hear on TV or see online is written in a "click-bait" fashion. People shouting headlines to scare you or enrage you, or make you shake your head in despair about what the world is coming to. If you react to such emotional baiting, you are giving yourself over to fear, anger and sadness. You are allowing the writers of those headlines to own those pieces of you.
So this holiday season, my hope for everyone is that you feel entitled to your emotions. I hope you share with all of us pieces of your love, joy and happiness. I hope you are cautious about letting others steal you into a frenzy of negative emotions. And if you are trying to process through grief and loss, I hope you are surrounded by people who love you enough to love you through it, and at your own pace.
With love and a grateful heart.
Tuesday, November 6, 2018
Breastfeeding while Broken
People talk a lot more openly these days about breastfeeding struggles, for which I am grateful. I have friends who couldn't breastfeed their babies because of medication they needed to be on. I have others who tried their best, but they couldn't produce enough or their work schedules got too hectic to keep up with pumping. Whether you feed your baby breastmilk or formula, from the breast or from the bottle, are deeply personal decisions and I have no politics in that game. What I would like to speak to is the struggle of breastfeeding while broken.
A few years ago, when I was pregnant with my first child (our son), I actually wondered if breastfeeding might "fix" me. You see, at thirteen years old, just as my body was blossoming into womanhood, I was molested by an older man. That experience damaged both my sexuality and my view of my own body. I looked at my chest as a source of unwanted attention and something that needed to be minimized or contained, in a sense. So when it came time to figure out how I was going to feed my baby, I thought the act of breastfeeding might help me "rebrand" (to use a term from my ad agency career days) how I related to that part of my body.
Unfortunately, trying to breastfeed was not the experience I'd been hoping for. My son was born via emergency c-section and had to go to the NICU. Perhaps this contributed to our troubles, but it took a case of mastitis weeks later for me to realize he wasn't properly latching when I nursed him. As a first-time Mom, I was exhausted and scared but my husband encouraged me not to give up. We decided that I'd try exclusively pumping, which offered the added benefit of allowing my husband to help with night feedings.
But the first time my husband tried to help me figure out getting hooked into the double-pump, hands-free nursing bra, I sobbed. I am sure all of the post-delivery hormones didn't help, but that moment made me feel so dehumanized, and shook the ghosts of my molestation so many years ago. This was not the healing journey I'd imagined. It was something that was being done to me. But I persevered while my husband tried his best to support me. I am grateful to him for nagging me as much as he did to visit with a lactation consultant because with the help of that wonderful woman, by the time he was three months old, I was finally able to latch and nurse my son at the breast! Yet, he weaned himself from me completely by the time he was nine months old, so our time together was perhaps brief.
When I was pregnant with Hailey, I wondered what our nursing journey would be like. I unpacked my multiple breast pumps in advance, preparing for the worst. Similar to my son (but for different reasons), Hailey too was whisked off to the NICU at birth. But, that didn't stand in our way this time. From the start, nursing Hailey was effortless, and my heart soared in appreciation for that gift from her. We went home, happy.
Then, as you all know by now, Hailey got sick. We ended up in the NICU. She grew too ill to nurse, and the breast pump re-entered my life. I didn't greet it as the enemy anymore, but appreciated that it had allowed me a bridge to feeding my son and could now hopefully do the same as I pumped and stored my breastmilk for when Hailey was well enough to drink it.
I think people maybe wonder what it is like to lose a child. The horror and pain of it, of how they could possibly survive. Many folks have told me they don't know how I do it, but they are part of the answer. All of you indulge my writing, which helps me heal. But I can tell you right now that perhaps the single hardest part of losing Hailey was trying to maintain my breastmilk in the hopes she would someday drink it. Just typing that now, two years later, makes my heart constrict with anguish and the tears are pouring down my face.
In the face of the deepest grief I have ever imagined, the only respite I found was when I'd manage to fall asleep. But I'd have to set an alarm, or kindly ask the nurses to wake me, every two to three hours to pump. Every two to three hours, around the clock, the horror of our situation would assault me all over again. It got to where I never wanted to go to sleep. I could manage to stay in the pain if I stayed awake. I'd go numb after a while. But sleeping and then waking up and having my soul crushed over and over again like some horrific groundhog day almost broke me completely.
I barely ate. My milk supply dwindled. On this mid-term election night, I am reminded of election night 2016 when I was so exhausted, I fell asleep with the pump running. I woke up hours later to my nipples torn to shreds, yet less than half a blood-tinged ounce of milk in each bottle. I forced myself to eat at least a bit more, even though I wanted to puke every time I smelled food. I forced myself to sleep a bit more, even though waking up was agony. To give up on my milk supply - to let it go completely - was to me, giving up hope that my daughter would live. I HAD to keep going, even though I think some of those closest to me worried about what my efforts were costing me in terms of my sanity.
In the final days of her life, Hailey actually made the strongest rebound to date and we thought we might be able to bring her home for Christmas. The doctors told me I could cautiously start putting her back to my breast. At first, only after I'd pumped all the milk out, so she could get back in the hang of suckling without the danger of choking. She did well, so then I actually got to full-on nurse her! Despite all she had been through, Hailey did great. I was SO proud of her, and so overjoyed. We had fought so hard to have that breastfeeding experience back, she and I, and perhaps in that sense - I'd finally received the healing I'd hoped for from that molestation incident all those years ago. Breastfeeding had become this special, life-sustaining, pre-eminent bonding experience. I cherished more than even before what my body could do for our children.
But sadly, that euphoria was short lived. In a matter of days, Hailey's lung collapsed because her heart was giving out. And then we lost her.
My husband couldn't handle making the funeral arrangements, so I did that. What I couldn't handle was making arrangements for the gallons upon gallons of breastmilk I'd pumped. I wanted someone to be able to use it, but I just couldn't emotionally face the fact that it would never go to Hailey. (I can tell you now that it did go to support two other babies - one who was adopted and the other whose Mom couldn't produce her own milk).
Almost 11 months after losing Hailey, our family was blessed with another daughter, who is also a nursing champ like her big sister. But we've not gone without our struggles either. We've faced frequent bouts of thrush over the past year, which stresses me out to no end and sends me into a sanitizing tizzy. We've made it though. And as we approach our second daughter's first birthday, I realize she has been weaning herself from breastmilk much the same way that my son did years ago. I guess once our kids get their hands on solid food, there is no turning back!
I wrote this post today because from time to time, people who know our story ask me for ideas on how to support other friends who are on their own NICU journey. There are a few books or gifts I can recommend (and really, who doesn't get sick of hospital food?!), but really, the number one thing I can say is to try and find a way to support that NICU Mama who is pumping. Who is trying to nurse. Who is trying to make milk to feed her baby when she can barely feed herself because her mind is fractured with anxiety and her heart may be breaking with grief.
Offer to serve as her alarm clock for pumping sessions. Text her to keep her company in the middle of the night. Help her to not feel so alone in those quiet and dark hours when the hospital is quiet but for the beeping of the monitors surrounding her child. If you can visit the hospital, offer to help clean her pump parts so she doesn't have to leave her baby's side. Or just because we all get tired of cleaning pump parts. (And oddly enough, hospitals don't seem to stock the materials for mamas to clean their pump parts, so you could bring a wash basin, soap, etc. with you!). And if that NICU Mama is barely holding onto her sanity as her world falls apart, give her the grace to know it is okay to do one thing to save herself. To stop pumping and to try to get some rest when she can.
Hell, do all these things for any new mama trying to feed her baby. But especially for NICU mamas. Be there then, and I promise you she will never forget it.
With love and a grateful heart.
A few years ago, when I was pregnant with my first child (our son), I actually wondered if breastfeeding might "fix" me. You see, at thirteen years old, just as my body was blossoming into womanhood, I was molested by an older man. That experience damaged both my sexuality and my view of my own body. I looked at my chest as a source of unwanted attention and something that needed to be minimized or contained, in a sense. So when it came time to figure out how I was going to feed my baby, I thought the act of breastfeeding might help me "rebrand" (to use a term from my ad agency career days) how I related to that part of my body.
Unfortunately, trying to breastfeed was not the experience I'd been hoping for. My son was born via emergency c-section and had to go to the NICU. Perhaps this contributed to our troubles, but it took a case of mastitis weeks later for me to realize he wasn't properly latching when I nursed him. As a first-time Mom, I was exhausted and scared but my husband encouraged me not to give up. We decided that I'd try exclusively pumping, which offered the added benefit of allowing my husband to help with night feedings.
But the first time my husband tried to help me figure out getting hooked into the double-pump, hands-free nursing bra, I sobbed. I am sure all of the post-delivery hormones didn't help, but that moment made me feel so dehumanized, and shook the ghosts of my molestation so many years ago. This was not the healing journey I'd imagined. It was something that was being done to me. But I persevered while my husband tried his best to support me. I am grateful to him for nagging me as much as he did to visit with a lactation consultant because with the help of that wonderful woman, by the time he was three months old, I was finally able to latch and nurse my son at the breast! Yet, he weaned himself from me completely by the time he was nine months old, so our time together was perhaps brief.
When I was pregnant with Hailey, I wondered what our nursing journey would be like. I unpacked my multiple breast pumps in advance, preparing for the worst. Similar to my son (but for different reasons), Hailey too was whisked off to the NICU at birth. But, that didn't stand in our way this time. From the start, nursing Hailey was effortless, and my heart soared in appreciation for that gift from her. We went home, happy.
Then, as you all know by now, Hailey got sick. We ended up in the NICU. She grew too ill to nurse, and the breast pump re-entered my life. I didn't greet it as the enemy anymore, but appreciated that it had allowed me a bridge to feeding my son and could now hopefully do the same as I pumped and stored my breastmilk for when Hailey was well enough to drink it.
I think people maybe wonder what it is like to lose a child. The horror and pain of it, of how they could possibly survive. Many folks have told me they don't know how I do it, but they are part of the answer. All of you indulge my writing, which helps me heal. But I can tell you right now that perhaps the single hardest part of losing Hailey was trying to maintain my breastmilk in the hopes she would someday drink it. Just typing that now, two years later, makes my heart constrict with anguish and the tears are pouring down my face.
In the face of the deepest grief I have ever imagined, the only respite I found was when I'd manage to fall asleep. But I'd have to set an alarm, or kindly ask the nurses to wake me, every two to three hours to pump. Every two to three hours, around the clock, the horror of our situation would assault me all over again. It got to where I never wanted to go to sleep. I could manage to stay in the pain if I stayed awake. I'd go numb after a while. But sleeping and then waking up and having my soul crushed over and over again like some horrific groundhog day almost broke me completely.
I barely ate. My milk supply dwindled. On this mid-term election night, I am reminded of election night 2016 when I was so exhausted, I fell asleep with the pump running. I woke up hours later to my nipples torn to shreds, yet less than half a blood-tinged ounce of milk in each bottle. I forced myself to eat at least a bit more, even though I wanted to puke every time I smelled food. I forced myself to sleep a bit more, even though waking up was agony. To give up on my milk supply - to let it go completely - was to me, giving up hope that my daughter would live. I HAD to keep going, even though I think some of those closest to me worried about what my efforts were costing me in terms of my sanity.
In the final days of her life, Hailey actually made the strongest rebound to date and we thought we might be able to bring her home for Christmas. The doctors told me I could cautiously start putting her back to my breast. At first, only after I'd pumped all the milk out, so she could get back in the hang of suckling without the danger of choking. She did well, so then I actually got to full-on nurse her! Despite all she had been through, Hailey did great. I was SO proud of her, and so overjoyed. We had fought so hard to have that breastfeeding experience back, she and I, and perhaps in that sense - I'd finally received the healing I'd hoped for from that molestation incident all those years ago. Breastfeeding had become this special, life-sustaining, pre-eminent bonding experience. I cherished more than even before what my body could do for our children.
But sadly, that euphoria was short lived. In a matter of days, Hailey's lung collapsed because her heart was giving out. And then we lost her.
My husband couldn't handle making the funeral arrangements, so I did that. What I couldn't handle was making arrangements for the gallons upon gallons of breastmilk I'd pumped. I wanted someone to be able to use it, but I just couldn't emotionally face the fact that it would never go to Hailey. (I can tell you now that it did go to support two other babies - one who was adopted and the other whose Mom couldn't produce her own milk).
Almost 11 months after losing Hailey, our family was blessed with another daughter, who is also a nursing champ like her big sister. But we've not gone without our struggles either. We've faced frequent bouts of thrush over the past year, which stresses me out to no end and sends me into a sanitizing tizzy. We've made it though. And as we approach our second daughter's first birthday, I realize she has been weaning herself from breastmilk much the same way that my son did years ago. I guess once our kids get their hands on solid food, there is no turning back!
I wrote this post today because from time to time, people who know our story ask me for ideas on how to support other friends who are on their own NICU journey. There are a few books or gifts I can recommend (and really, who doesn't get sick of hospital food?!), but really, the number one thing I can say is to try and find a way to support that NICU Mama who is pumping. Who is trying to nurse. Who is trying to make milk to feed her baby when she can barely feed herself because her mind is fractured with anxiety and her heart may be breaking with grief.
Offer to serve as her alarm clock for pumping sessions. Text her to keep her company in the middle of the night. Help her to not feel so alone in those quiet and dark hours when the hospital is quiet but for the beeping of the monitors surrounding her child. If you can visit the hospital, offer to help clean her pump parts so she doesn't have to leave her baby's side. Or just because we all get tired of cleaning pump parts. (And oddly enough, hospitals don't seem to stock the materials for mamas to clean their pump parts, so you could bring a wash basin, soap, etc. with you!). And if that NICU Mama is barely holding onto her sanity as her world falls apart, give her the grace to know it is okay to do one thing to save herself. To stop pumping and to try to get some rest when she can.
Hell, do all these things for any new mama trying to feed her baby. But especially for NICU mamas. Be there then, and I promise you she will never forget it.
With love and a grateful heart.
Thursday, October 18, 2018
Life Is...
What I have on my heart to talk about isn't anything y'all haven't heard before, but I think sometimes we can all benefit from a little reminder. A life well lived is one in which we all help each other. Because we only see of people what they allow us, and as the saying goes, many times folks are fighting a battle we know nothing about.
I think back to the one Christmas we had with Hailey. We found out on December 23 that we were going to lose her, and in an effort to clear our minds, we left the hospital and took our two year old son to the nearby mall to look at all of the holiday decorations and to ride the carousel. To outsiders looking in, we were just a happy young couple enjoying the season with our son. I remember thinking just that as we walked through the mall. That everyone around us had no idea we had just been handed the most horrific news of our lives.
I have another friend who has a hard time walking into the restaurant where her family gathered the morning she lost her mother. She can't help but stare at the table where they sat that day.
We all notice the person who is cranky in the grocery check-out line, and maybe sometimes we catch someone looking downbeat at the gas pump, but do we ever wonder why or do we just write them off as sour people? Do we offer them some grace? Look them in the eyes and offer a smile or a sympathetic word?
I heard Melissa McCarthy being interviewed on the radio this morning about a new movie she is in where she doesn't play a loud, comical, outgoing figure but rather a woman who more-so puts on a type of armor to face each day and keep people at bay. Melissa talks about puzzling out how to play a woman who lived much more on the interior, and I was touched to hear how she really started LOOKING at the people around her and truly wondering about what they were facing inside...the stuff she would have no way of knowing about from just looking at them. The stuff we all have.
We have no idea, when we start out each day, our capacity to positively impact someone else's day. A lot of times we never even find out when we have. I think that because I have grieved Hailey so publicly through this blog, I've had a unique opportunity to hear from folks we have touched or helped in some way, and I am always so incredibly thankful to the people who choose to share that with me.
Sometimes, I hear we have touched people in big ways. And other times, it is through something so small but perhaps timed so perfectly that it feels like serendipity. In these moments, I marvel at how something I might barely remember saying or doing really changed the course of someone's day or week or even year. And I think, there really must be a great Being out there who loves us all so much, to give us the capacity to connect and lift each other up in these ways.
Just yesterday, I got to experience a special moment in this regard. A friend of our family who still lives in Kansas is helping to collect blankets out there as part of my blanket drive for Hailey this year. Yesterday, she received a donation that was left on her porch with a note saying how thankful the person was to be able to participate in our drive because they'd recently lost their own child and the blanket the baby was wrapped in has come to have great meaning for them and to serve as a source of comfort. They were happy to do something positive to pay this forward, and I teared up when I noticed they lost their child on what would have been Hailey's second birthday. It reinforced for me how much we are all tied together in this fragile thing called life.
So stepping off my soapbox, I will say I GET it. I get busy in my own life, frustrated with my kids, stuck in my own problems or just in traffic...and I need to remember to slow down. To really LOOK at people instead of writing them off because I'm so busy with my own stuff. Because it is like another old saying goes, when people are looking their worst, that is when they need our best. And we are not human without connection.
With love and a grateful heart.
I think back to the one Christmas we had with Hailey. We found out on December 23 that we were going to lose her, and in an effort to clear our minds, we left the hospital and took our two year old son to the nearby mall to look at all of the holiday decorations and to ride the carousel. To outsiders looking in, we were just a happy young couple enjoying the season with our son. I remember thinking just that as we walked through the mall. That everyone around us had no idea we had just been handed the most horrific news of our lives.
I have another friend who has a hard time walking into the restaurant where her family gathered the morning she lost her mother. She can't help but stare at the table where they sat that day.
We all notice the person who is cranky in the grocery check-out line, and maybe sometimes we catch someone looking downbeat at the gas pump, but do we ever wonder why or do we just write them off as sour people? Do we offer them some grace? Look them in the eyes and offer a smile or a sympathetic word?
I heard Melissa McCarthy being interviewed on the radio this morning about a new movie she is in where she doesn't play a loud, comical, outgoing figure but rather a woman who more-so puts on a type of armor to face each day and keep people at bay. Melissa talks about puzzling out how to play a woman who lived much more on the interior, and I was touched to hear how she really started LOOKING at the people around her and truly wondering about what they were facing inside...the stuff she would have no way of knowing about from just looking at them. The stuff we all have.
We have no idea, when we start out each day, our capacity to positively impact someone else's day. A lot of times we never even find out when we have. I think that because I have grieved Hailey so publicly through this blog, I've had a unique opportunity to hear from folks we have touched or helped in some way, and I am always so incredibly thankful to the people who choose to share that with me.
Sometimes, I hear we have touched people in big ways. And other times, it is through something so small but perhaps timed so perfectly that it feels like serendipity. In these moments, I marvel at how something I might barely remember saying or doing really changed the course of someone's day or week or even year. And I think, there really must be a great Being out there who loves us all so much, to give us the capacity to connect and lift each other up in these ways.
Just yesterday, I got to experience a special moment in this regard. A friend of our family who still lives in Kansas is helping to collect blankets out there as part of my blanket drive for Hailey this year. Yesterday, she received a donation that was left on her porch with a note saying how thankful the person was to be able to participate in our drive because they'd recently lost their own child and the blanket the baby was wrapped in has come to have great meaning for them and to serve as a source of comfort. They were happy to do something positive to pay this forward, and I teared up when I noticed they lost their child on what would have been Hailey's second birthday. It reinforced for me how much we are all tied together in this fragile thing called life.
So stepping off my soapbox, I will say I GET it. I get busy in my own life, frustrated with my kids, stuck in my own problems or just in traffic...and I need to remember to slow down. To really LOOK at people instead of writing them off because I'm so busy with my own stuff. Because it is like another old saying goes, when people are looking their worst, that is when they need our best. And we are not human without connection.
With love and a grateful heart.
Thursday, October 11, 2018
Competitive Complaining
I know that people are competitive by nature, but I never thought the temptations of one-up-man-ship would extend to the arenas of hardship and grief. Who would want to corner such a market?! And yet, all too often, we try.
Since letting Hailey go Home, I've met many new and wonderful people. Some are women who lost their child in utero. They often think their grief can't compare to mine, since I delivered and held my baby for four months before we lost her. I've also met and spoken with one woman who lost her otherwise healthy son in his early twenties due to a tragic accident. I thought then and still believe now that my grief is nothing compared to hers. More recently, on what would have been Hailey's second birthday, I met another woman who was choked up because that day was also the seven month anniversary of her mother passing. She - like I am - was best friends with her mother, and I cannot imagine the depth of grief she must feel, nor could she imagine mine. The sad fact of the matter is that grief does not tolerate comparison: it is hard on everyone and we all experience it differently.
The same goes for hardship: I see this a lot in the military community. It is a hard lifestyle and not for the faint of heart. It can easily build resentment, and this often manifests in little and big ways. We get competitive with each other about how bad our most recent relocation was: I had more items broken than you. Or, we arrived at our new duty station to discover the builder hadn't finished our new house. We establish a hierarchy of suffering: Oh - your family just finished your third deployment? We just finished our fifth. My husband didn't even meet our fourth child until she was five months old. Who really wants to win the gold medal in misery?! Why do we fight for this?
As women and mothers, we are also hard on not only ourselves but also each other. We are all just struggling to survive and raise healthy and sane little people, yet we judge each other. If something isn't hard for us or it isn't a particular bridge we've had to cross (yet), instead of granting Susie So-and-So a bit of grace, we judge. I don't see why Elizabeth hasn't potty-trained her youngest yet. A three year old in diapers - can you believe? Or, I can't believe Janie lets her son watch so much tv in the evenings. My Jack just loves sitting with his books and toy trains.
To be clear, I am guilty in every one of these categories. But here's the thing: yesterday was Mental Health Awareness Day and that is what inspired this post. Ask yourself, does it matter if something isn't hard for you if it is hard for someone else? Does it make their suffering any less genuine? Your sympathy or empathy any less available? Because we were all born with different genetic code, and we were all raised by different parents. Maybe some of us lucked out and don't have to struggle with depression and/or anxiety. Maybe some of us hit the jackpot and had caregivers who equipped us with the best tools for tackling life's challenges. And maybe some of us lost both those lotteries.
If something is hard for someone else, respect that. It does NOT take away from your own narrative, whatever that may be. What is hard for you is hard for you, and what is hard for them is hard for them. No competition. We are all just trying to do our best to live and be happy, and I know that our sweet Hailey Grace wouldn't want me using her suffering as some way to score points in some grief battle that no one will ever "win".
So next time I see someone struggling, I'm going to try harder to judge a little bit less and help a little bit more. With love and a grateful heart.
Since letting Hailey go Home, I've met many new and wonderful people. Some are women who lost their child in utero. They often think their grief can't compare to mine, since I delivered and held my baby for four months before we lost her. I've also met and spoken with one woman who lost her otherwise healthy son in his early twenties due to a tragic accident. I thought then and still believe now that my grief is nothing compared to hers. More recently, on what would have been Hailey's second birthday, I met another woman who was choked up because that day was also the seven month anniversary of her mother passing. She - like I am - was best friends with her mother, and I cannot imagine the depth of grief she must feel, nor could she imagine mine. The sad fact of the matter is that grief does not tolerate comparison: it is hard on everyone and we all experience it differently.
The same goes for hardship: I see this a lot in the military community. It is a hard lifestyle and not for the faint of heart. It can easily build resentment, and this often manifests in little and big ways. We get competitive with each other about how bad our most recent relocation was: I had more items broken than you. Or, we arrived at our new duty station to discover the builder hadn't finished our new house. We establish a hierarchy of suffering: Oh - your family just finished your third deployment? We just finished our fifth. My husband didn't even meet our fourth child until she was five months old. Who really wants to win the gold medal in misery?! Why do we fight for this?
As women and mothers, we are also hard on not only ourselves but also each other. We are all just struggling to survive and raise healthy and sane little people, yet we judge each other. If something isn't hard for us or it isn't a particular bridge we've had to cross (yet), instead of granting Susie So-and-So a bit of grace, we judge. I don't see why Elizabeth hasn't potty-trained her youngest yet. A three year old in diapers - can you believe? Or, I can't believe Janie lets her son watch so much tv in the evenings. My Jack just loves sitting with his books and toy trains.
To be clear, I am guilty in every one of these categories. But here's the thing: yesterday was Mental Health Awareness Day and that is what inspired this post. Ask yourself, does it matter if something isn't hard for you if it is hard for someone else? Does it make their suffering any less genuine? Your sympathy or empathy any less available? Because we were all born with different genetic code, and we were all raised by different parents. Maybe some of us lucked out and don't have to struggle with depression and/or anxiety. Maybe some of us hit the jackpot and had caregivers who equipped us with the best tools for tackling life's challenges. And maybe some of us lost both those lotteries.
If something is hard for someone else, respect that. It does NOT take away from your own narrative, whatever that may be. What is hard for you is hard for you, and what is hard for them is hard for them. No competition. We are all just trying to do our best to live and be happy, and I know that our sweet Hailey Grace wouldn't want me using her suffering as some way to score points in some grief battle that no one will ever "win".
So next time I see someone struggling, I'm going to try harder to judge a little bit less and help a little bit more. With love and a grateful heart.
Friday, October 5, 2018
Running from the Pain
I think it has been almost a year since I've posted here. It is hard to find the time when your husband is deployed, you have a toddler and then a newborn. Needless to say, a lot has happened - much of it good - and maybe I will catch up on blogging about all of it at some point. But for now, what's on my heart is the idea of learning to live with pain.
When Hailey passed away, everyone was so kind. It is hard to know what to say to a woman who is burying a child and I'm of the school of thought that there is no wrong thing to say. Just show up. That alone means the world, and even if you say something that might not help me, I know you offered it in the best spirit possible.
One such statement that I heard often and struggled with was when folks would acknowledge that the grief of losing Hailey would always be with me. They are absolutely correct, but at the time, my pain was so searing and I wanted to believe that I could survive losing my daughter. That I wasn't burying myself whole along with her. That life wouldn't always feel so overwhelming as it did then, and that with time, my little family could discover some new form of normal where we could still laugh and find happiness in our days.
I believe it is human nature to push away from pain and even simple discomfort, and I was standing face-to-face with a lifetime of it to come. Me. The gal who never even ran a full mile until I was well into high school because I didn't like the wall you have to push through to settle into a pace. I'd just give up and go do something else.
I've written here before about running and how it has become my special bonding time with Hailey, but the truth is, I didn't pick it up until my late twenties and to anyone who asked, I never would have claimed it as a hobby, nor would I have pretended any skill. It was just something I did because I enjoyed being outside more than in a gym, and it allowed me to eat and drink as I pleased without gaining weight. I had no aspirations of 5ks, marathons (half or otherwise) or even the simple act of timing myself.
But after Hailey passed away, running took on new meaning for me. When faced with living with a lifetime of soul-scorching grief, I decided to do something I don't know that I've ever really done before. Something to which I think much of our society has become so averse. I embraced the pain and the discomfort. I did that emotionally through writing this blog, and by never discounting Hailey's existence when I talked to folks in person. With running, I did so by pushing my boundaries. I made sure, with every run, that I pushed myself to exhaustion, whether it was by speed, distance or resistance. Every time it hurt and I wanted to quit, I thought of all Hailey endured to stay with us for as long as she did, and I pushed on. For the first time in my life, I didn't give up or back away because it was uncomfortable.
The other day, I was in the middle of one such run when I was reminded of something Tony, that guy who created and leads P90X, said during the Yoga workout. He is talking the audience through holding a difficult pose and he says something so simple and yet, I have since found it to be so profound. He says something along the lines of, "Settle in. You are going to be uncomfortable. Everyone in this studio (holding this pose) is uncomfortable. But that's okay."
It was overwhelming for me to think about living with my grief, and sometimes it still is. And you may be struggling with your own issues: challenges with your kids or an impending divorce or a tough job. But you don't have to run from it or so desperately search for a solution. It is okay to take a deep breath, grab on to the struggle and just settle in for a while. Know that it will be tough, and that it will hurt, but that it does you no good in the long run to push it away or try to solve it so quickly. Because you are strong enough to embrace your pain and at the least, just keep putting one foot in front of the other until one day, you look up and realize you've formed a new normal.
When Hailey passed away, everyone was so kind. It is hard to know what to say to a woman who is burying a child and I'm of the school of thought that there is no wrong thing to say. Just show up. That alone means the world, and even if you say something that might not help me, I know you offered it in the best spirit possible.
One such statement that I heard often and struggled with was when folks would acknowledge that the grief of losing Hailey would always be with me. They are absolutely correct, but at the time, my pain was so searing and I wanted to believe that I could survive losing my daughter. That I wasn't burying myself whole along with her. That life wouldn't always feel so overwhelming as it did then, and that with time, my little family could discover some new form of normal where we could still laugh and find happiness in our days.
I believe it is human nature to push away from pain and even simple discomfort, and I was standing face-to-face with a lifetime of it to come. Me. The gal who never even ran a full mile until I was well into high school because I didn't like the wall you have to push through to settle into a pace. I'd just give up and go do something else.
I've written here before about running and how it has become my special bonding time with Hailey, but the truth is, I didn't pick it up until my late twenties and to anyone who asked, I never would have claimed it as a hobby, nor would I have pretended any skill. It was just something I did because I enjoyed being outside more than in a gym, and it allowed me to eat and drink as I pleased without gaining weight. I had no aspirations of 5ks, marathons (half or otherwise) or even the simple act of timing myself.
But after Hailey passed away, running took on new meaning for me. When faced with living with a lifetime of soul-scorching grief, I decided to do something I don't know that I've ever really done before. Something to which I think much of our society has become so averse. I embraced the pain and the discomfort. I did that emotionally through writing this blog, and by never discounting Hailey's existence when I talked to folks in person. With running, I did so by pushing my boundaries. I made sure, with every run, that I pushed myself to exhaustion, whether it was by speed, distance or resistance. Every time it hurt and I wanted to quit, I thought of all Hailey endured to stay with us for as long as she did, and I pushed on. For the first time in my life, I didn't give up or back away because it was uncomfortable.
The other day, I was in the middle of one such run when I was reminded of something Tony, that guy who created and leads P90X, said during the Yoga workout. He is talking the audience through holding a difficult pose and he says something so simple and yet, I have since found it to be so profound. He says something along the lines of, "Settle in. You are going to be uncomfortable. Everyone in this studio (holding this pose) is uncomfortable. But that's okay."
It was overwhelming for me to think about living with my grief, and sometimes it still is. And you may be struggling with your own issues: challenges with your kids or an impending divorce or a tough job. But you don't have to run from it or so desperately search for a solution. It is okay to take a deep breath, grab on to the struggle and just settle in for a while. Know that it will be tough, and that it will hurt, but that it does you no good in the long run to push it away or try to solve it so quickly. Because you are strong enough to embrace your pain and at the least, just keep putting one foot in front of the other until one day, you look up and realize you've formed a new normal.
Friday, November 3, 2017
When Christmas Doesn't Feel Like Christmas
Some of you may be groaning at the title of this post because it is only November 3. We are barely past Halloween and you may be worrying that I'm bypassing Thanksgiving all together. I promise you this is very much NOT the case! This Thanksgiving will take on a more special meaning for us than ever before because we will finally be welcoming Hailey's baby sister to this world, and we have so very much to be thankful for.
BECAUSE of the fact that I will be having a baby at Thanksgiving, and I know those first few weeks with our toddler son and a newborn will be a blur, I'm trying to get all of my Christmas shopping done now, wrapped, and shipped off to where it needs to go. Maybe this is also part of that nesting/homemaking thing that can afflict women at the end of their pregnancies - who knows. But I'm embracing it.
BECAUSE, too, last year Christmas didn't feel like Christmas at all.
I spent the second half of October in the NICU with Hailey. And then all of November. By early December, our sweet little fighter had actually mounted her biggest recovery to date, and my husband and I were cautiously optimistic that we might actually be able to take her home by Christmas. As I spent all my days with Hailey, shopping on Amazon was a life saver for me in terms of tackling gift giving for our families.
For what felt like the longest time, I held off on buying Hailey any Christmas presents because I wasn't sure if she would live to see the holiday, and it broke my heart to think of the presents sitting idly by if she was never to play with them. But as she continued to improve, I cautiously purchased a handful of gifts for her.
On the morning of Saturday, December 17, I woke up at home beside my husband. Hailey had been stable and doing well enough that I'd taken to spending the evenings and overnights with my husband and son to provide our family with some balance. We'd been invited to a neighbor's house for breakfast, but I was lagging behind to finish pumping breast milk for Hailey when the hospital called.
The nurse practitioner on the phone sounded somewhat calm as she told me my daughter's lung had collapsed, but I could sense the frenzy going on in the background. It took me a moment for my brain to process. I obviously knew that wasn't good news, but I wasn't quite sure of the implications. I asked if my daughter was, in that moment, dying. Quite honestly, they didn't know. I was told a lot would depend on how the next number of hours went. In shock, I called my husband home and we rushed to the hospital to find our daughter who had just been doing so well suddenly hooked up to more wires and tubes than we'd ever seen before (and we'd already been through a lot!).
Hailey held on for the next few days, but she wasn't doing well. And then on December 23, we found out this last setback was one our beautiful, strong daughter wasn't likely to surmount. Her heart had given out faster than anyone had ever seen in a child so young.
I remember dazedly walking through the halls of the Children's Hospital, all decked out for the winter holidays. I remember feeling sad, mad and utterly distraught that I'd been foolish enough to give in to hope and that I had just bought Hailey Christmas presents. I remember thinking, how on God's green earth does anyone find out two days before Christmas that their child is going to die?
I remember thinking of my son. I remember my husband and I discussing how best to love each of our children through the tough days and weeks ahead. I didn't want to leave Hailey, but we took some time away from the hospital to try to think more clearly, and to take our son out to enjoy at least a little bit of the Christmas season. Mainly, that meant we took him to a nearby mall to see Santa, and to ride a two-story carousel as many times as he wanted. He was two, so he was easily entertained and made happy by all the Christmas lights and the crowds of happy people.
You know that saying about being kind to people because you never know what they are going through? That day, I felt like we were THOSE people. I marveled that to anyone who saw us then, we were simply a young family of three. A Mommy and Daddy taking their son out on our holiday break. How could any of them guess we'd just been told our daughter was dying? We rode the carousel with our son. We tried to smile, for him. We were numb.
We spent Christmas together, as a family of four, in the NICU.
Grief in and of itself can be so isolating, but when yours hits on a holiday or some other occasion when the rest of the world is out celebrating, it can feel so much worse. So much more lonely.
But in the end, I actually took comfort in the fact that we were losing Hailey at Christmas because I've always felt it is a time when God in Heaven is closer to us here on earth, as we all stop to love each other a little better in celebration of Jesus' birth.
We waited until December 30 to remove Hailey from life support. She didn't have much time left with us regardless, but I chose the day. I wanted to ease our daughter's suffering --- to finally give her some small measure of peace. To acknowledge how hard she'd fought to remain with us for as long as she had. And to let her go to be with Our Father when I felt him nearest to us. It somehow felt wrong to make her carry her burdens into the new year.
Hailey's going home was one of the most painful and most special moments in my life. As I've written about before in this blog, Hailey blessed us with every last wish we had for her. We removed her tubes and she got to sit with her big brother one last time. He got to hold her, hug her and kiss her cheek. And then my husband and I got to hold onto her as she passed quickly from this world with a gentle sigh. She didn't struggle. She didn't seem scared. She seemed relieved.
I have wondered for these past many months since losing Hailey how I would feel this Christmas. If the holiday would forever be tainted for me as a time of great sadness and loss. I think a wonderful part of this journey in healing is that we have been blessed with another child who will be in our arms when the holiday comes around once again. This new child will never replace Hailey, nor is she meant to. Rather, I see her as a gift FROM Hailey...a third child I'd otherwise never expected to carry.
So yes, it is November 3 and I am embracing Christmas. I am shopping and I am wrapping gifts while I listen to Christmas carols. And with every breath, I am thinking of our dear, sweet Hailey Grace and praying for this new life that is about to emerge. And that I won't be too much of a disaster the final week of this year. But if I am, that is okay, too. Few things are as immense as a parent's love for their child. Death cannot change that.
With love and a grateful heart.
BECAUSE of the fact that I will be having a baby at Thanksgiving, and I know those first few weeks with our toddler son and a newborn will be a blur, I'm trying to get all of my Christmas shopping done now, wrapped, and shipped off to where it needs to go. Maybe this is also part of that nesting/homemaking thing that can afflict women at the end of their pregnancies - who knows. But I'm embracing it.
BECAUSE, too, last year Christmas didn't feel like Christmas at all.
I spent the second half of October in the NICU with Hailey. And then all of November. By early December, our sweet little fighter had actually mounted her biggest recovery to date, and my husband and I were cautiously optimistic that we might actually be able to take her home by Christmas. As I spent all my days with Hailey, shopping on Amazon was a life saver for me in terms of tackling gift giving for our families.
For what felt like the longest time, I held off on buying Hailey any Christmas presents because I wasn't sure if she would live to see the holiday, and it broke my heart to think of the presents sitting idly by if she was never to play with them. But as she continued to improve, I cautiously purchased a handful of gifts for her.
On the morning of Saturday, December 17, I woke up at home beside my husband. Hailey had been stable and doing well enough that I'd taken to spending the evenings and overnights with my husband and son to provide our family with some balance. We'd been invited to a neighbor's house for breakfast, but I was lagging behind to finish pumping breast milk for Hailey when the hospital called.
The nurse practitioner on the phone sounded somewhat calm as she told me my daughter's lung had collapsed, but I could sense the frenzy going on in the background. It took me a moment for my brain to process. I obviously knew that wasn't good news, but I wasn't quite sure of the implications. I asked if my daughter was, in that moment, dying. Quite honestly, they didn't know. I was told a lot would depend on how the next number of hours went. In shock, I called my husband home and we rushed to the hospital to find our daughter who had just been doing so well suddenly hooked up to more wires and tubes than we'd ever seen before (and we'd already been through a lot!).
Hailey held on for the next few days, but she wasn't doing well. And then on December 23, we found out this last setback was one our beautiful, strong daughter wasn't likely to surmount. Her heart had given out faster than anyone had ever seen in a child so young.
I remember dazedly walking through the halls of the Children's Hospital, all decked out for the winter holidays. I remember feeling sad, mad and utterly distraught that I'd been foolish enough to give in to hope and that I had just bought Hailey Christmas presents. I remember thinking, how on God's green earth does anyone find out two days before Christmas that their child is going to die?
I remember thinking of my son. I remember my husband and I discussing how best to love each of our children through the tough days and weeks ahead. I didn't want to leave Hailey, but we took some time away from the hospital to try to think more clearly, and to take our son out to enjoy at least a little bit of the Christmas season. Mainly, that meant we took him to a nearby mall to see Santa, and to ride a two-story carousel as many times as he wanted. He was two, so he was easily entertained and made happy by all the Christmas lights and the crowds of happy people.
You know that saying about being kind to people because you never know what they are going through? That day, I felt like we were THOSE people. I marveled that to anyone who saw us then, we were simply a young family of three. A Mommy and Daddy taking their son out on our holiday break. How could any of them guess we'd just been told our daughter was dying? We rode the carousel with our son. We tried to smile, for him. We were numb.
We spent Christmas together, as a family of four, in the NICU.
Grief in and of itself can be so isolating, but when yours hits on a holiday or some other occasion when the rest of the world is out celebrating, it can feel so much worse. So much more lonely.
But in the end, I actually took comfort in the fact that we were losing Hailey at Christmas because I've always felt it is a time when God in Heaven is closer to us here on earth, as we all stop to love each other a little better in celebration of Jesus' birth.
We waited until December 30 to remove Hailey from life support. She didn't have much time left with us regardless, but I chose the day. I wanted to ease our daughter's suffering --- to finally give her some small measure of peace. To acknowledge how hard she'd fought to remain with us for as long as she had. And to let her go to be with Our Father when I felt him nearest to us. It somehow felt wrong to make her carry her burdens into the new year.
Hailey's going home was one of the most painful and most special moments in my life. As I've written about before in this blog, Hailey blessed us with every last wish we had for her. We removed her tubes and she got to sit with her big brother one last time. He got to hold her, hug her and kiss her cheek. And then my husband and I got to hold onto her as she passed quickly from this world with a gentle sigh. She didn't struggle. She didn't seem scared. She seemed relieved.
I have wondered for these past many months since losing Hailey how I would feel this Christmas. If the holiday would forever be tainted for me as a time of great sadness and loss. I think a wonderful part of this journey in healing is that we have been blessed with another child who will be in our arms when the holiday comes around once again. This new child will never replace Hailey, nor is she meant to. Rather, I see her as a gift FROM Hailey...a third child I'd otherwise never expected to carry.
So yes, it is November 3 and I am embracing Christmas. I am shopping and I am wrapping gifts while I listen to Christmas carols. And with every breath, I am thinking of our dear, sweet Hailey Grace and praying for this new life that is about to emerge. And that I won't be too much of a disaster the final week of this year. But if I am, that is okay, too. Few things are as immense as a parent's love for their child. Death cannot change that.
With love and a grateful heart.
Wednesday, October 18, 2017
"Hope" is the Thing with Feathers
“Hope” is the thing with feathers
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
Despite the fact that I opened this blog post with a poem, I've never been one for poetry. I even switched my college degree away from English when I realized how many 400-level poetry classes I would have to take to graduate. I much prefer when people are more plainly spoken, and often times when we would dissect the meaning of a poem in class, I thought people were clearly just making stuff up. Everything seemed so open to interpretation or hidden meetings and it was too abstract for me.
That being said, I still find the odd poem that speaks to me. Usually they are the more popular ones because as mentioned above my appetite for poetry is not that deep, and "Hope" Is The Thing With Feathers by Emily Dickinson falls into this category. I've always liked her message that hope springs eternal in our chests, but I like this poem even more now for its embodiment of hope as a bird.
As with poetry, I never used to be overly fond of birds, but now I have an attachment to them in regard to Hailey. The first time I ever heard the hymn "His Eye Is On the Sparrow," I fell in love with it. I think I was 13. And all these years later, when my daughter got sick, it was one of the songs I'd often play for her, or sing to her myself, in the hope of bringing her comfort. I told her she was one of God's little sparrows.
On Christmas Eve of last year, as my husband and I had just received news of how dire Hailey's case was and sat alone in the doo-wop, diner-styled hospital cafeteria trying to decide on a plan of care for her, we both heard "His Eye Is On The Sparrow" playing from some still-unknown source. My husband and I had teared up --- we'd each felt it was a sign that God was with us in that awful moment.
But today is October 18, 2017. Exactly one year ago today, I was first rushing my then six-week old daughter into the hospital because she'd thrown up a funny color. I remember the feeling of unease I had, driving through the dark myself while my husband remained at home with our son. I was worried...the night felt particularly ominous and I remember telling myself not to overreact. I tried to remain calm.
As our days in the hospital turned into weeks and then months, and the symptoms piled up, I fought to maintain hope for my daughter. There were days when doing so felt utterly daunting. I had to search hard for any little positive bit of news to sustain me.
*
After Hailey passed away, there was one thing people would say to me that scared the hell out of me. "A piece of your heart will always be missing," they would acknowledge. I understood the positive intention behind the words and didn't blame the people who offered them for the terror they caused me. Because I wanted to believe that my husband, son and I could be okay without Hailey here with us on Earth. I wanted to believe that we could move forward. That we still stood some hope of being a happy family --- just one with a very special angel looking over us from Heaven. But I didn't know. I couldn't be sure. Thinking that a piece of my heart would always be missing made me feel like I would never be whole again. It made me feel panicky.
I am here to say those folks were not wrong. A piece of my heart will always be with Hailey. I won't ever be the same as before I lost her. She has been gone for almost 10 months and while I can go two or three weeks in a row and be fine, then I will wake up for a day or two in a row and just feel so weepy and heartbroken for my sweet girl, and for us.
But I don't see myself as permanently broken, as I once feared I would be. Because I fought, alongside my husband, to maintain hope for our future as a family. I sit here, 34-weeks pregnant with Hailey's little sister in my belly. Something I couldn't fathom a year ago. I'd planned to be finished having children after Hailey was born --- so this baby is a miracle that wouldn't exist if not for her big sister. And I wonder how I will feel when I finally hold this baby in my arms --- and how much of a mess I might be all over again for having lost Hailey. But I will embrace that moment when it comes and find my way through as I have with everything else. With faith and the loving support of so many family and friends.
It is a brave thing to hope. Audacious even, as President Obama once said.
We cannot know what tomorrow brings. We can fear the negative possibilities and threats of failure that tend to run rampant in a mother's worrying heart, or we can acknowledge the equal opportunity for beauty in all its forms...the best ones being those we often never even could have imagined for ourselves. I choose hope. For myself, and for all those whom I love and know are facing their own struggles.
With love and a grateful heart.
Monday, October 9, 2017
Horoscopes, Hindsight and HIM
The past few years, it has been hard to get to church. It's true that I never enjoyed going much until my late twenties, when I stumbled onto some joyful and invigorating church communities and my now husband introduced me to the enriching environment a small group/Bible study can provide.
But, moving around with the military can make it hard because every few years we have to start the church search all over again. And having kids can make getting to church hard, too. When my son was very young, his feeding and nap schedule never seemed to work out with the distance we had to drive to attend a church we liked. Then as he got older, his rambunctious spirit sent shivers down my spine at the thought of getting him to sit through a service. And I had to drop out of not one, not two but three different Bible studies because my normally happy son wouldn't tolerate the free care provided by the Bible-study organizers.
Then Hailey was born. And I spent all my time in the hospital, and many tearful moments in the hospital chapel. It was a beautiful place filled with desperation, hope, love, empathy...I miss it and often wish I could go back. It was a room filled with golden light and it made me feel like I was sitting inside a star. It is where I spent Christmas last year...I think it is the only year in my entire life that I didn't formally attend church in celebration of Christ's birth. I just sat there myself in the hospital chapel and prayed. And on December 30, it is where we baptized Hailey and let her go home to be with God.
I've gone to church since then. Only formally for Hailey's funeral mass. But other times, just to sit in a church and pray. To feel closer to God, whom I've never stopped talking to, and now my daughter in Heaven. But I kind of knew that wasn't enough.
So a few days ago, when a friend here in Georgia asked me to go check out a new church with her that she was curious about, I agreed to go if the church could provide childcare for our kids (especially since both of our husbands are away and not around to help right now). I felt like maybe my friend's invitation was a sign, and maybe it was time.
Believing people look for signs --- whether you believe in horoscopes and look for them to be true, or you believe in God and look for Him to be true. Skeptical people struggle with the idea of signs and balance them against logic. Did your horoscope really come to fruition, or did you look for ways to make it so? Am I truly receiving signs from my daughter that she is still with me, or from God that He wants me back at church, or am I being fanciful because my heart longs for it to be so? Or is it all hindsight, it being 20/20 after all?
I don't know. But I couldn't have predicted how my visit to this new church would go. The pastor started the sermon talking about recent events in Las Vegas, which I figured was par for the course. What I didn't anticipate was that the rest of his talk would veer into the pain of losing a child. Or the compassion Jesus feels for us in such a moment. Oh and that friend that I was checking out the church with? The thing that first brought us together was that she has lost a child, too. So we both sat there, next to each other, in that church for the first time, and we both felt so stunned. And so moved.
The pastor spoke about believing in God and in Heaven and how our children will greet us again someday. He relayed a story he once read, written by a woman who imagined twins in the womb. They enjoyed their lives in utero, but as they aged, the quarters became more cramped and they began to sense a change was coming. One twin embraced it and was excited for birth, but the other felt nervous. He wondered, "how do we know life exists after birth? How do we know our mother really exists? We've never met her. No one has ever come back to tell us there is more after this life in here."
But of course, we all now know life does exist after birth and it is wonderful. And I look forward to discovering the beauty of life after death because I hope I will see Heaven one day, and my daughter's spirit made whole. On Sunday, I felt God pulling me close to Him and I'm thankful He'd still make such an effort for me. I look forward to spending more time in His House so that I may know Him better now, while I'm still here on Earth.
With love, and a grateful heart.
But, moving around with the military can make it hard because every few years we have to start the church search all over again. And having kids can make getting to church hard, too. When my son was very young, his feeding and nap schedule never seemed to work out with the distance we had to drive to attend a church we liked. Then as he got older, his rambunctious spirit sent shivers down my spine at the thought of getting him to sit through a service. And I had to drop out of not one, not two but three different Bible studies because my normally happy son wouldn't tolerate the free care provided by the Bible-study organizers.
Then Hailey was born. And I spent all my time in the hospital, and many tearful moments in the hospital chapel. It was a beautiful place filled with desperation, hope, love, empathy...I miss it and often wish I could go back. It was a room filled with golden light and it made me feel like I was sitting inside a star. It is where I spent Christmas last year...I think it is the only year in my entire life that I didn't formally attend church in celebration of Christ's birth. I just sat there myself in the hospital chapel and prayed. And on December 30, it is where we baptized Hailey and let her go home to be with God.
I've gone to church since then. Only formally for Hailey's funeral mass. But other times, just to sit in a church and pray. To feel closer to God, whom I've never stopped talking to, and now my daughter in Heaven. But I kind of knew that wasn't enough.
So a few days ago, when a friend here in Georgia asked me to go check out a new church with her that she was curious about, I agreed to go if the church could provide childcare for our kids (especially since both of our husbands are away and not around to help right now). I felt like maybe my friend's invitation was a sign, and maybe it was time.
Believing people look for signs --- whether you believe in horoscopes and look for them to be true, or you believe in God and look for Him to be true. Skeptical people struggle with the idea of signs and balance them against logic. Did your horoscope really come to fruition, or did you look for ways to make it so? Am I truly receiving signs from my daughter that she is still with me, or from God that He wants me back at church, or am I being fanciful because my heart longs for it to be so? Or is it all hindsight, it being 20/20 after all?
I don't know. But I couldn't have predicted how my visit to this new church would go. The pastor started the sermon talking about recent events in Las Vegas, which I figured was par for the course. What I didn't anticipate was that the rest of his talk would veer into the pain of losing a child. Or the compassion Jesus feels for us in such a moment. Oh and that friend that I was checking out the church with? The thing that first brought us together was that she has lost a child, too. So we both sat there, next to each other, in that church for the first time, and we both felt so stunned. And so moved.
The pastor spoke about believing in God and in Heaven and how our children will greet us again someday. He relayed a story he once read, written by a woman who imagined twins in the womb. They enjoyed their lives in utero, but as they aged, the quarters became more cramped and they began to sense a change was coming. One twin embraced it and was excited for birth, but the other felt nervous. He wondered, "how do we know life exists after birth? How do we know our mother really exists? We've never met her. No one has ever come back to tell us there is more after this life in here."
But of course, we all now know life does exist after birth and it is wonderful. And I look forward to discovering the beauty of life after death because I hope I will see Heaven one day, and my daughter's spirit made whole. On Sunday, I felt God pulling me close to Him and I'm thankful He'd still make such an effort for me. I look forward to spending more time in His House so that I may know Him better now, while I'm still here on Earth.
With love, and a grateful heart.
Wednesday, September 27, 2017
Make Your World Small
When your child endures a lengthy stay in the hospital, their treatment bay or room (if you are lucky enough to be granted one) becomes your world. You learn all of the doctors' names and know who is on rotation. You make friends with the nurses and always hope you are staffed with a familiar face. You figure out when the hospital cafe stops serving coffee and which day of the week your favorite meal is served in the cafeteria. It can be hard, at times, in the midst of deciphering medical jargon and evolving diagnoses, to remember a broader world exists outside the hospital walls.
I grew so accustomed to our hospital routine that even now, months after sweet Hailey has passed away, I miss the comfort of the routine we found for ourselves. I miss holding my daughter. I miss the social conversations I had with the nurses. When Hailey was well enough for me to sleep back at my house with my husband and son, I miss the routine of calling the hospital on those nights around 9 p.m., when I knew the evening nurse had just weighed my daughter. Every new ounce gained was a victory of enormous proportions, and we always celebrated together. I knew everyone was rooting for my daughter, and for us.
Fast forward to this past week. On social media and in the news, I viewed many opinions about the controversy surrounding NFL players taking a knee during the playing of the national anthem, the debate reignited by some fiery remarks made by President Trump. I am touched by the patriotism so many feel for this country, and wish more of these folks felt moved to serve in our all-volunteer force. I feel proud of the men and women who do serve in our military to protect the many freedoms we hold dear. I feel disheartened by the racial divide that still exists in our country today, which I see born out not only in national protests and news headlines but also in the broken hearts of neighbors and friends who have to worry for the safety of their children simply because of the color of their skin.
Having recently had to evacuate our own home for Hurricane Irma, and having had to endure only 24-hours of life without electricity with a rambunctious but healthy toddler, my heart is shattered for the people of Puerto Rico. They are citizens of this country (although their need is the same even if they were not!), and yet they have had to endure unspeakable hardships while awaiting our aid. Their needs are immediate. They are without food, water, power and running low on gas. Hospitals - including children's hospitals - are running out of the diesel they need to keep sick children alive. I pray that everyone who has found time to debate taking a knee also finds it in their heart to give to the people of Puerto Rico and those others recently impacted by natural disasters.
For my friends who have felt disheartened by recent events, I would like to say a few things. First, as my husband pointed out, just because we disagree doesn't mean I dislike you. I think many of us have lost the ability to listen to opposing view points with an open heart. Truly, I'm not above that struggle. But listening with an open heart is the only way we can learn from each other. Just because a truth is not YOUR truth, doesn't mean it isn't true for someone else. We all walk different paths and should not discount each other. When talking with someone else with whom you disagree, try asking more questions rather than making heated statements.
Second, and most importantly, people can still be good if you give them the opportunity NOT to disappoint you. I admit to feeling disheartened like many others with what is going on these days, but all I have to do is simply think back to my journey with Hailey and all of the many kindnesses people showed us. I think back to how desperate my heart felt in those days, and how small my hospital world with Hailey was.
And so in closing, I offer you this advice: make your world small. Tune out all the noise and the people who don't matter. Surround yourself with people who lift you up until you feel brave enough to take a chance on strangers again. Focus on what you CAN do to be the change you want to see: practice listening with an open heart, give to people in need, and let your voice be heard through action...volunteer, vote, LOVE.
In my house, we hung a shelf made by my husband on the wall across from where I run on the treadmill. On it sits a portrait from our wedding day, when we looked out on the world with love in our eyes and hope in our hearts. Next to it is a picture of Hailey taken in the hospital, sleeping in my arms --- chosen specifically to remind me how hard our daughter fought and yet that she still found moments of peace amidst it all. Beside her, there is a tiny glass jar with a bird perched above it, to remind me the Lord keeps his eye on the sparrow. And an angel and lantern as well, to always help guide us. All of this, and the sound of our son's laughter echoing through the hallways of our home, keep my heart lifted in times such as these. Hailey taught me we can all find peace amidst the struggle, and use it to stay centered. With love and a grateful heart.
.
I grew so accustomed to our hospital routine that even now, months after sweet Hailey has passed away, I miss the comfort of the routine we found for ourselves. I miss holding my daughter. I miss the social conversations I had with the nurses. When Hailey was well enough for me to sleep back at my house with my husband and son, I miss the routine of calling the hospital on those nights around 9 p.m., when I knew the evening nurse had just weighed my daughter. Every new ounce gained was a victory of enormous proportions, and we always celebrated together. I knew everyone was rooting for my daughter, and for us.
Fast forward to this past week. On social media and in the news, I viewed many opinions about the controversy surrounding NFL players taking a knee during the playing of the national anthem, the debate reignited by some fiery remarks made by President Trump. I am touched by the patriotism so many feel for this country, and wish more of these folks felt moved to serve in our all-volunteer force. I feel proud of the men and women who do serve in our military to protect the many freedoms we hold dear. I feel disheartened by the racial divide that still exists in our country today, which I see born out not only in national protests and news headlines but also in the broken hearts of neighbors and friends who have to worry for the safety of their children simply because of the color of their skin.
Having recently had to evacuate our own home for Hurricane Irma, and having had to endure only 24-hours of life without electricity with a rambunctious but healthy toddler, my heart is shattered for the people of Puerto Rico. They are citizens of this country (although their need is the same even if they were not!), and yet they have had to endure unspeakable hardships while awaiting our aid. Their needs are immediate. They are without food, water, power and running low on gas. Hospitals - including children's hospitals - are running out of the diesel they need to keep sick children alive. I pray that everyone who has found time to debate taking a knee also finds it in their heart to give to the people of Puerto Rico and those others recently impacted by natural disasters.
For my friends who have felt disheartened by recent events, I would like to say a few things. First, as my husband pointed out, just because we disagree doesn't mean I dislike you. I think many of us have lost the ability to listen to opposing view points with an open heart. Truly, I'm not above that struggle. But listening with an open heart is the only way we can learn from each other. Just because a truth is not YOUR truth, doesn't mean it isn't true for someone else. We all walk different paths and should not discount each other. When talking with someone else with whom you disagree, try asking more questions rather than making heated statements.
Second, and most importantly, people can still be good if you give them the opportunity NOT to disappoint you. I admit to feeling disheartened like many others with what is going on these days, but all I have to do is simply think back to my journey with Hailey and all of the many kindnesses people showed us. I think back to how desperate my heart felt in those days, and how small my hospital world with Hailey was.
And so in closing, I offer you this advice: make your world small. Tune out all the noise and the people who don't matter. Surround yourself with people who lift you up until you feel brave enough to take a chance on strangers again. Focus on what you CAN do to be the change you want to see: practice listening with an open heart, give to people in need, and let your voice be heard through action...volunteer, vote, LOVE.
In my house, we hung a shelf made by my husband on the wall across from where I run on the treadmill. On it sits a portrait from our wedding day, when we looked out on the world with love in our eyes and hope in our hearts. Next to it is a picture of Hailey taken in the hospital, sleeping in my arms --- chosen specifically to remind me how hard our daughter fought and yet that she still found moments of peace amidst it all. Beside her, there is a tiny glass jar with a bird perched above it, to remind me the Lord keeps his eye on the sparrow. And an angel and lantern as well, to always help guide us. All of this, and the sound of our son's laughter echoing through the hallways of our home, keep my heart lifted in times such as these. Hailey taught me we can all find peace amidst the struggle, and use it to stay centered. With love and a grateful heart.
.
Monday, September 4, 2017
On Her First Birthday, A Legacy of Love
At this time last year, I was in the hospital, preparing to give birth to Hailey. She was born on September 5, 2016, and it was an easy if cheesy joke to quip that I labored on Labor Day. Unlike her big brother, she cried the moment they pulled her out of me and I remember sighing in relief to my husband and exalting, "Oh thank God, she is healthy!!!"
Little did we know how wrong I would soon be proven. Above is a photograph of a few of the items by which I remember Hailey today. The outfit her big brother picked out for her and that she wore home from the hospital. The little lovey bear she clung to once she was readmitted to the hospital a month later, never to leave again. A lock of her hair, which now separated from her head looks like a dull brown rather than the strawberry blonde luster we originally knew it by. And a tiny locket the hospital made for us, with a shrunken image of Hailey's little hand print.
It would be easy to sit here tonight, on the eve of my daughter's first birthday, and write about all that we have lost. I certainly feel it in my heart as my grief threatens to pull me under. But I think a better way to pay homage to the joyous occasion of my daughter's birth is to think about all that I have gained through her.
Thanks to Hailey Grace, I have made new friends. From the staff at the children's hospital who cared for us, to fellow NICU parents, members of our Army community, and folks we've met since moving to Georgia, who were brave enough to befriend me despite the fact that I'm going through one of life's worst moments....I am so thankful for all of you.
I have had my faith in humanity bolstered by the many acts of kindness folks have shown us. From the woman who cut my son's hair for free when she heard it was for his sister's funeral, to the old high school acquaintance who gifted me the most stunning bouquet for Hailey's grave...people really do care.
I'm thankful I have gained a deeper relationship with existing friends through their many gestures of support, from cross-country trips to attend Hailey's services, their words of love, their continued outreach to make sure I am okay and their patience when I sometimes take too long to respond.
And, my relationship with running has evolved from a necessary evil to my cherished, prayerful time with the daughter I will always miss, but will always carry in my heart.
Thanks to our journey with Hailey, I now possess and even deeper appreciation for my husband and son. My husband, for his steadfast and positive outlook on life and for the mutual support we have provided each other through some of life's darkest moments. (The enormity of the balance he provides my life is so keenly felt now while he is deployed!). And if I ever thought I couldn't cherish my son more than I already did before, I was wrong. The twinkle of joy in his eyes, the sound of his laughter and his bright and inquisitive nature have all helped me continue to get out of bed each day and look forward to the future.
I have learned to take nothing for granted. Good health, a cool breeze on a warm day, even bad things that later turn out for the good...I now have better patience for God's plan. Even though I may still sob for missing Hailey, I can look back upon our journey with her and see the small gifts along the way...that we got to enjoy a month at home with her, believing we had a happy, healthy family. That she didn't die at her lowest point in the hospital, when she was so emaciated and sickly-looking. I'm not sure if I could have survived losing her looking like she did then...with barely any life left in her eyes. Instead, she held on and gained weight and I got to see her rosy cheeked and bright-eyed and a more healthy size before we had to let her go. I was confident from the way she looked at me then that she KNEW the love we held for her.
Our sweet Hailey was full of gifts, even in her passing. My husband and I prayed that after we removed Hailey's breathing tube that she wouldn't struggle or suffer greatly. We prayed that our son would get to hold her one last time, and that we would get to hear her voice once more. God, and Hailey, allowed us all of that. She held on just long enough for one last visit with her brother, and moments later in my arms, her voice let out the softest of sighs that everyone in the room got to hear before I literally FELT her soul leave her body.
The moment I felt Hailey leave is the closest I've ever felt to Heaven, and yet since losing her, I've also felt so much more in-tune with the world around me here on Earth. I look for signs from my daughter, and connections I never would have noticed before.
When Hailey was alive and fighting the good fight, there were a few songs I used to play in an attempt to bring her comfort. One of them was an acoustic version of How Great Thou Art. Well, a few weeks ago after my husband deployed, I fell asleep praying to God and Hailey. And during the night, I dreamt so vividly of How Great Thou Art being sung like I'd never heard it before...first by one singer, then by a duet, only to close with the magnificent joy I could only attribute to a majestic, Heavenly choir. I knew it was like nothing I could ever hear on Earth, and I felt like I'd received another gift from my daughter.
For the rest of my life, I will remain in awe of Hailey's spirit and strength. I will remain thankful for these many gifts with which she continues to bless me. She has taught me how to survive, how to choose love, how to embrace my sorrow but also search for a healthy way forward.
On the occasion of Hailey's first birthday, I'd like to celebrate her short but impactful life with a fabulous idea from a dear friend. I'd like to launch a Random Acts of Kindness/Pay it Forward Campaign in Hailey's memory. The rules are simple: by following this link, you can download cards to hand out when you offer an act of kindness in Hailey's name. They include a link to Hailey's story, as I've written it in this blog. They also include a link to a Facebook page entitled Honoring Hailey, where I'd love it if people would post about the things they've done for others in our daughter's memory. Please help us expand her legacy of love --- it is the best gift you could ever give my family, I promise.
With love, and a grateful heart. Happy 1st Birthday, dear, sweet Hailey Grace!!!
Wednesday, August 16, 2017
What We Need
Sometimes in life, we are lucky enough to receive what we need, when we need it.
I think back to our time with Hailey in the hospital, and the days when doctors were considering diagnoses that would have meant prolonged suffering with little quality of life for our daughter before she passed away. These scary moments allowed me to feel thankful when Hailey's heart failed her quickly, and her suffering was greatly reduced from what it could have been.
I think back to the days shortly after Hailey passed away, when a good friend asked to host a half-marathon for Hailey's half birthday. At first I was daunted by the prospect of participating, as I felt as Hailey's mother, I must. But we all ran the miles over a few days, and the half-marathon turned out to be the best thing for me. Running got me moving, and it morphed what had been a laborious hobby of mine into my cherished bonding time with my daughter. I'm 25 weeks pregnant now with Hailey's baby sister, but I'm still running my miles each week, and talking to Hailey the whole time. Whether out loud or in my head, I tell her I love her every 30 seconds or so while I run. I push myself harder for her. I pray for her forgiveness that I couldn't give her a better life, and I ask her blessing and support to help me to be the best mother I can to her big brother and baby sister.
I think of last night, when I lay in bed by myself, missing Hailey. I cried as I looked through pictures of her, and wished my husband was here to give me a hug. I started to Google support groups for folks who have lost a child. I haven't been to one before, mainly because I knew after losing Hailey that we were about to move and I didn't want to go through something that raw with folks and then have to tear myself away to relocate across the country. And so last night, with my husband deployed halfway across the globe, I thought maybe I could find one.
People have been so, so kind since Hailey got sick and then passed away, but sometimes all that can help is just talking to someone else who is walking a similar path. Even though I might usually feel emotionally at peace with losing my child, I still ache from missing her. And now I don't have the physical proximity of my husband to hold me and let me know he feels the longing for our daughter as well.
It can also feel very isolating at times...to feel this curse of losing a child and to feel like you are the only one you know who has gone through it.
Unfortunately, I didn't stumble onto any nearby support groups. Attending would also require the logistics of a babysitter for my son since I'm on my own for a bit...but today, THE VERY NEXT DAY, I got what I needed. A friend reached out because she knows someone here locally who has also lost a child and asked me if I'd speak with her. My heart leapt at the thought and I eagerly agreed. I know everyone is at different points in their lives (and in our case, journey of loss), and this woman and I may or may not click, but it made me so happy to have this opportunity to connect with someone else who has been there. Even if it is just for one meet up...although hopefully we can become friends! At any rate, I just felt blessed when this happened today, and thankful to the universe.
With love and a grateful heart.
I think back to our time with Hailey in the hospital, and the days when doctors were considering diagnoses that would have meant prolonged suffering with little quality of life for our daughter before she passed away. These scary moments allowed me to feel thankful when Hailey's heart failed her quickly, and her suffering was greatly reduced from what it could have been.
I think back to the days shortly after Hailey passed away, when a good friend asked to host a half-marathon for Hailey's half birthday. At first I was daunted by the prospect of participating, as I felt as Hailey's mother, I must. But we all ran the miles over a few days, and the half-marathon turned out to be the best thing for me. Running got me moving, and it morphed what had been a laborious hobby of mine into my cherished bonding time with my daughter. I'm 25 weeks pregnant now with Hailey's baby sister, but I'm still running my miles each week, and talking to Hailey the whole time. Whether out loud or in my head, I tell her I love her every 30 seconds or so while I run. I push myself harder for her. I pray for her forgiveness that I couldn't give her a better life, and I ask her blessing and support to help me to be the best mother I can to her big brother and baby sister.
I think of last night, when I lay in bed by myself, missing Hailey. I cried as I looked through pictures of her, and wished my husband was here to give me a hug. I started to Google support groups for folks who have lost a child. I haven't been to one before, mainly because I knew after losing Hailey that we were about to move and I didn't want to go through something that raw with folks and then have to tear myself away to relocate across the country. And so last night, with my husband deployed halfway across the globe, I thought maybe I could find one.
People have been so, so kind since Hailey got sick and then passed away, but sometimes all that can help is just talking to someone else who is walking a similar path. Even though I might usually feel emotionally at peace with losing my child, I still ache from missing her. And now I don't have the physical proximity of my husband to hold me and let me know he feels the longing for our daughter as well.
It can also feel very isolating at times...to feel this curse of losing a child and to feel like you are the only one you know who has gone through it.
Unfortunately, I didn't stumble onto any nearby support groups. Attending would also require the logistics of a babysitter for my son since I'm on my own for a bit...but today, THE VERY NEXT DAY, I got what I needed. A friend reached out because she knows someone here locally who has also lost a child and asked me if I'd speak with her. My heart leapt at the thought and I eagerly agreed. I know everyone is at different points in their lives (and in our case, journey of loss), and this woman and I may or may not click, but it made me so happy to have this opportunity to connect with someone else who has been there. Even if it is just for one meet up...although hopefully we can become friends! At any rate, I just felt blessed when this happened today, and thankful to the universe.
With love and a grateful heart.
Tuesday, July 25, 2017
The Invisible String
If you haven't heard of it, The Invisible String is a children's book I first became acquainted with while I was in the hospital with Hailey. A kind person brought it by as a resource to help my young son through the impending loss of his baby sister. The book itself doesn't focus on loss, but the love that connects us all, no matter what, near or far.
This book just reentered our lives once again, through the kindness of yet another, as a gift to our son upon his third birthday. I think in this instance, it will help our little boy feel connected to his father, even though Daddy is traveling to the other side of the world for a while.
The significance of this book and its emergence in our lives is not lost on me. In fact, I've thought about it quite a bit, especially as I've heard from so many of you over the past number of days as we've endured a health scare with baby #3 right before my husband departs. And while many of my posts speak of faith in the midst of this challenging road we are on, I want to write this post in part for the people who do not follow a faith, but DO follow their hearts.
At numerous points over the past number of months, I have been so touched by the many ways in which people have lifted us up. Not the least of these is when I hear from folks who don't profess to pray or put much stock in religion, but offer up their heartfelt hopes for my family, in whatever way they can. They are letting me know that invisible string of love reaches even further than I often know.
The absence of that string --- that sense of humanity and love that connects us all --- is perhaps one of the worst feelings I've ever felt, and one I came into contact with a few days ago. When the nurse practitioner at my OB's office told me she was referring us out to specialists due to two abnormalities on the baby's anatomy ultrasound, I begged her to find a way to schedule us before my husband's deployment. She said they'd see what they could do, but I will admit I didn't have great faith in her statement after the way the entire appointment had been handled. I checked back in later that day, and the next day. No news whatsoever, and our timeline was quite short. I asked if I could call the specialists myself to see about the appointment and they gave me the number. I didn't want my husband going to war, worrying we might lose another child. I was heartsick and desperate.
I called the specialists' office and spoke with the most heartless person I've encountered --- really the ONLY one --- since we lost Hailey. She told me she wouldn't speak to me, wouldn't give me an appointment, and that they would only deal with the referring doctor's office. I calmly replied that I understood that, and believed they should have already had my referral in their possession for a bit of time, but just wanted to call to explain our situation. I told her we had buried our daughter in January, that my husband was deploying in days, and that I didn't want to be trying to track him down with potentially bad news as he leapfrogs across the globe to his final destination. The woman curtly replied that she understood and told me the doctors would "get to it when they get to it", and hung up.
I felt so crushed, I cried. It wasn't that they couldn't fit us in --- that, I could understand and accept if I had to. It was that the woman didn't care, wouldn't take my name, wouldn't even LOOK. My suffering was simply a nuisance to her. I understand rules and regulations exist for a reason (I did marry into the military, after all), but it all just felt so cruel. Like every painful moment we had been through didn't matter at all. She at least could have been more gentle about shutting the door in my face, rather than slamming it. I felt disconnected from the world around me, in suffering, in lack of understanding, desperately reaching out for that invisible string. In that moment, dejected, I gave myself up to the world and whatever else it might subject us to.
It wasn't that I feared what may be wrong with the baby. Of course I felt worried, but that bit of stress I'd already agreed to give up to God and our Hailey-in-the-Stars. Baby #3 would either be okay, or she wouldn't, and we would face it either way, just as we did with Hailey. Any control I tried to exert was out of an aching concern for my husband's heart. It is already hard enough for him to leave us for this deployment (and for us to see him off) and if I could move mountains to spare him any suffering, I will always give it my best effort. And I did. Apparently to no avail.
But then, the following day, after I'd already given up, I received a phone call from the specialists. Apparently the doctors had finally gotten to our file, and were willing to give us the next available appointment, which was on Monday. Excitedly, I asked my husband to clear it with his command. Then I spent the weekend praying to God and Hailey-in-the-Stars, and trying to truly enjoy some of our last days together with my husband.
At our appointment on Monday, I found out from the woman conducting the ultrasound that we had been referred to them not just for the two abnormalities I'd been told about, but a third as well. My heart dipped. There was a kidney concern, a heart concern, and (news to me!) a concern with the nuchal fold measurement. The nuchal fold measurement can pertain to Downs Syndrome, but luckily, I already knew from the genetic testing we'd done earlier in the pregnancy that baby #3 does NOT have Downs.
I clutched the necklace around my neck --- one I wear in remembrance for Hailey --- and prayed through the whole ultrasound. The tech was very sweet and kindly obliged us and turned on the 3D function to show us our daughter's face. It is too early on to have the fatty baby cheeks, but I knew seeing her face would do our hearts well and help us to bond with our daughter throughout whatever storms we might be about to weather. Here is our little beauty!
And then the time came to meet with the doctor. I wondered what the odds were that both the heart AND kidney (it was just one that had been off) could be okay.
My husband and I received a blessing we often prayed for with Hailey, but so rarely ever received. GOOD news!! Whatever the odds were that everything could be okay, they were! I don't know if our issues from the first ultrasound were due to old equipment, a bad tech, the baby's poor position that day or likely some combination of all three, but who cares!! Our daughter --- picked out by both God and Hailey-in-the-Stars --- is okay! And please know, for all those parents out there who don't get the news they were hoping for, I understand. We've been there. So I don't offer our proclamation lightly or without sensitivity for the broken hearts of others. I just need to embrace our good days when we have them.
With love and a grateful heart: for this good news, that it could be shared in person with my husband, and for the invisible string that connects us all.
This book just reentered our lives once again, through the kindness of yet another, as a gift to our son upon his third birthday. I think in this instance, it will help our little boy feel connected to his father, even though Daddy is traveling to the other side of the world for a while.
The significance of this book and its emergence in our lives is not lost on me. In fact, I've thought about it quite a bit, especially as I've heard from so many of you over the past number of days as we've endured a health scare with baby #3 right before my husband departs. And while many of my posts speak of faith in the midst of this challenging road we are on, I want to write this post in part for the people who do not follow a faith, but DO follow their hearts.
At numerous points over the past number of months, I have been so touched by the many ways in which people have lifted us up. Not the least of these is when I hear from folks who don't profess to pray or put much stock in religion, but offer up their heartfelt hopes for my family, in whatever way they can. They are letting me know that invisible string of love reaches even further than I often know.
The absence of that string --- that sense of humanity and love that connects us all --- is perhaps one of the worst feelings I've ever felt, and one I came into contact with a few days ago. When the nurse practitioner at my OB's office told me she was referring us out to specialists due to two abnormalities on the baby's anatomy ultrasound, I begged her to find a way to schedule us before my husband's deployment. She said they'd see what they could do, but I will admit I didn't have great faith in her statement after the way the entire appointment had been handled. I checked back in later that day, and the next day. No news whatsoever, and our timeline was quite short. I asked if I could call the specialists myself to see about the appointment and they gave me the number. I didn't want my husband going to war, worrying we might lose another child. I was heartsick and desperate.
I called the specialists' office and spoke with the most heartless person I've encountered --- really the ONLY one --- since we lost Hailey. She told me she wouldn't speak to me, wouldn't give me an appointment, and that they would only deal with the referring doctor's office. I calmly replied that I understood that, and believed they should have already had my referral in their possession for a bit of time, but just wanted to call to explain our situation. I told her we had buried our daughter in January, that my husband was deploying in days, and that I didn't want to be trying to track him down with potentially bad news as he leapfrogs across the globe to his final destination. The woman curtly replied that she understood and told me the doctors would "get to it when they get to it", and hung up.
I felt so crushed, I cried. It wasn't that they couldn't fit us in --- that, I could understand and accept if I had to. It was that the woman didn't care, wouldn't take my name, wouldn't even LOOK. My suffering was simply a nuisance to her. I understand rules and regulations exist for a reason (I did marry into the military, after all), but it all just felt so cruel. Like every painful moment we had been through didn't matter at all. She at least could have been more gentle about shutting the door in my face, rather than slamming it. I felt disconnected from the world around me, in suffering, in lack of understanding, desperately reaching out for that invisible string. In that moment, dejected, I gave myself up to the world and whatever else it might subject us to.
It wasn't that I feared what may be wrong with the baby. Of course I felt worried, but that bit of stress I'd already agreed to give up to God and our Hailey-in-the-Stars. Baby #3 would either be okay, or she wouldn't, and we would face it either way, just as we did with Hailey. Any control I tried to exert was out of an aching concern for my husband's heart. It is already hard enough for him to leave us for this deployment (and for us to see him off) and if I could move mountains to spare him any suffering, I will always give it my best effort. And I did. Apparently to no avail.
But then, the following day, after I'd already given up, I received a phone call from the specialists. Apparently the doctors had finally gotten to our file, and were willing to give us the next available appointment, which was on Monday. Excitedly, I asked my husband to clear it with his command. Then I spent the weekend praying to God and Hailey-in-the-Stars, and trying to truly enjoy some of our last days together with my husband.
At our appointment on Monday, I found out from the woman conducting the ultrasound that we had been referred to them not just for the two abnormalities I'd been told about, but a third as well. My heart dipped. There was a kidney concern, a heart concern, and (news to me!) a concern with the nuchal fold measurement. The nuchal fold measurement can pertain to Downs Syndrome, but luckily, I already knew from the genetic testing we'd done earlier in the pregnancy that baby #3 does NOT have Downs.
I clutched the necklace around my neck --- one I wear in remembrance for Hailey --- and prayed through the whole ultrasound. The tech was very sweet and kindly obliged us and turned on the 3D function to show us our daughter's face. It is too early on to have the fatty baby cheeks, but I knew seeing her face would do our hearts well and help us to bond with our daughter throughout whatever storms we might be about to weather. Here is our little beauty!And then the time came to meet with the doctor. I wondered what the odds were that both the heart AND kidney (it was just one that had been off) could be okay.
My husband and I received a blessing we often prayed for with Hailey, but so rarely ever received. GOOD news!! Whatever the odds were that everything could be okay, they were! I don't know if our issues from the first ultrasound were due to old equipment, a bad tech, the baby's poor position that day or likely some combination of all three, but who cares!! Our daughter --- picked out by both God and Hailey-in-the-Stars --- is okay! And please know, for all those parents out there who don't get the news they were hoping for, I understand. We've been there. So I don't offer our proclamation lightly or without sensitivity for the broken hearts of others. I just need to embrace our good days when we have them.
With love and a grateful heart: for this good news, that it could be shared in person with my husband, and for the invisible string that connects us all.
Wednesday, July 19, 2017
How Do You Do It?
In a previous post, I wrote about how grief and happiness are not mutually exclusive in my heart. Along those same lines, neither are hope and fear. I think hope and happiness are such powerful emotions because they can bloom in your heart DESPITE grief and fear.
My husband is unfailingly happy and optimistic by nature, and I envy him for it. I'm reminded of the sayings, "ignorance is bliss" and "don't borrow problems you don't yet have" and "we'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Yet when faced with any tough situation, my logical mind cannot help but consider the potential of all possibilities, many of them negative. But what I've come to realize is that if you let yourself live in that space permanently, it can be unhealthy. Worrying does not change the outcome.
So at some point, while my mind might still have to look at all paths, I must still make the tough choice to have faith. Choosing to believe is actually the only piece of control I have. And yet, as we navigated our journey with Hailey, I worried that if I spoke faithfully, people would feel that I was naive about the situation --- that I could view it only with the hope born of a mother's love. I felt it necessary to couch anything positive that I said with a leveling comment about the odds or understanding the science of it all. (Just as with grief and happiness and hope and fear, I do not believe faith and science are mutually exclusive either!).
Why did I do this? Why did I need to prove that my faith was not blind? Perhaps because faith with both eyes open is even more powerful. I knew what we faced with Hailey, just as I have a good idea of the risks associated with my husband's upcoming deployment.
So do you wonder what is circling in my heart and mind right now when I'm burying my daughter and seeing my husband off just months apart? I can't stop thinking about how we found out just two days before Christmas that we were going to lose Hailey. I go back to watch this video, recorded at about 2 a.m. on December 30. It is of me reading Hailey my favorite childhood story until she falls asleep in my arms. She went home to be with God later that day. Holding your child in your arms as she dies is faith with both eyes open.
For the past few nights, I've watched my husband pack his bags for deployment and then take an hour or more putting our son to bed because he can't stand the thought of parting from him for so long. We are both optimistic about this deployment, especially with our guardian angel, Hailey, watching over us. But of course we know the risks. That is faith with both eyes open.
And then came today. The 20-week anatomy ultrasound for baby #3. I actually scheduled it for 21 weeks, just so my husband could be present. It was his last chance to see this baby before he deploys, which was particularly special since he won't be home for the delivery. I was so excited, and had been hoping the ultrasound tech would turn on the 3D feature so we could catch a glimpse of the baby's face, but it was not to be. It was an older machine that didn't have 3D capability and unfortunately, the baby was poorly positioned for the ultrasound anyway.
After a while of the ultrasound tech trying to get every measurement she could despite the baby's difficult positioning, my husband had to leave to head to work. The tech and nurse practitioner didn't tell me until after he left about the two abnormalities they'd noted during the ultrasound. They took just long enough that my husband had made it into work, that I received the news alone, and that I couldn't get ahold of him because he was sitting in a secure briefing.
I sat there, physically numb. My mind screamed, "NO, I can't do this again! I can't do this by myself while my husband is deployed and I'm still grieving Hailey and raising our son! This is why we did genetic testing!" Outwardly, I quietly accepted the fact that I was being referred out to a maternal fetal medicine specialist for a follow-up ultrasound. I begged the office to find a way to get it scheduled in the little time we have left before my husband leaves. I don't want him to deploy, worrying about the unknown. As of right now, we still don't have an appointment.
On the drive home, I thought of my rather stoic Irish grandmother, who always says we must just do the best we can. That we must keep going. And I realized it doesn't matter if these ultrasound abnormalities are a fluke or something more serious. It doesn't matter if every piece of me screams at going through this without my husband here. I don't have a choice. As much as there is some small emotional relief at railing at the injustice of it all, in the end, that is not a healthy place to live. It will not change the outcome.
And so I sit here, anxiously awaiting news of an appointment date. I pray, and ask for your prayers, that it is before my husband deploys and that he can be there. But more importantly, that this precious gift in my belly is okay.
I will allow myself to feel anxious about the appointment, but the rest I have to give up to God. Through everything today, and even in my dreariest moments, I couldn't stop thinking about the hymn, "It is well with my soul." It was penned by a man who faced immense personal tragedy. (Click the title below if you'd like to hear it on YouTube).
There is no better example of faith with both eyes open, and from this, I take my cue.
With love and a grateful heart.
My husband is unfailingly happy and optimistic by nature, and I envy him for it. I'm reminded of the sayings, "ignorance is bliss" and "don't borrow problems you don't yet have" and "we'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Yet when faced with any tough situation, my logical mind cannot help but consider the potential of all possibilities, many of them negative. But what I've come to realize is that if you let yourself live in that space permanently, it can be unhealthy. Worrying does not change the outcome.
So at some point, while my mind might still have to look at all paths, I must still make the tough choice to have faith. Choosing to believe is actually the only piece of control I have. And yet, as we navigated our journey with Hailey, I worried that if I spoke faithfully, people would feel that I was naive about the situation --- that I could view it only with the hope born of a mother's love. I felt it necessary to couch anything positive that I said with a leveling comment about the odds or understanding the science of it all. (Just as with grief and happiness and hope and fear, I do not believe faith and science are mutually exclusive either!).
Why did I do this? Why did I need to prove that my faith was not blind? Perhaps because faith with both eyes open is even more powerful. I knew what we faced with Hailey, just as I have a good idea of the risks associated with my husband's upcoming deployment.
So do you wonder what is circling in my heart and mind right now when I'm burying my daughter and seeing my husband off just months apart? I can't stop thinking about how we found out just two days before Christmas that we were going to lose Hailey. I go back to watch this video, recorded at about 2 a.m. on December 30. It is of me reading Hailey my favorite childhood story until she falls asleep in my arms. She went home to be with God later that day. Holding your child in your arms as she dies is faith with both eyes open.
For the past few nights, I've watched my husband pack his bags for deployment and then take an hour or more putting our son to bed because he can't stand the thought of parting from him for so long. We are both optimistic about this deployment, especially with our guardian angel, Hailey, watching over us. But of course we know the risks. That is faith with both eyes open.
And then came today. The 20-week anatomy ultrasound for baby #3. I actually scheduled it for 21 weeks, just so my husband could be present. It was his last chance to see this baby before he deploys, which was particularly special since he won't be home for the delivery. I was so excited, and had been hoping the ultrasound tech would turn on the 3D feature so we could catch a glimpse of the baby's face, but it was not to be. It was an older machine that didn't have 3D capability and unfortunately, the baby was poorly positioned for the ultrasound anyway.
After a while of the ultrasound tech trying to get every measurement she could despite the baby's difficult positioning, my husband had to leave to head to work. The tech and nurse practitioner didn't tell me until after he left about the two abnormalities they'd noted during the ultrasound. They took just long enough that my husband had made it into work, that I received the news alone, and that I couldn't get ahold of him because he was sitting in a secure briefing.
I sat there, physically numb. My mind screamed, "NO, I can't do this again! I can't do this by myself while my husband is deployed and I'm still grieving Hailey and raising our son! This is why we did genetic testing!" Outwardly, I quietly accepted the fact that I was being referred out to a maternal fetal medicine specialist for a follow-up ultrasound. I begged the office to find a way to get it scheduled in the little time we have left before my husband leaves. I don't want him to deploy, worrying about the unknown. As of right now, we still don't have an appointment.
On the drive home, I thought of my rather stoic Irish grandmother, who always says we must just do the best we can. That we must keep going. And I realized it doesn't matter if these ultrasound abnormalities are a fluke or something more serious. It doesn't matter if every piece of me screams at going through this without my husband here. I don't have a choice. As much as there is some small emotional relief at railing at the injustice of it all, in the end, that is not a healthy place to live. It will not change the outcome.
And so I sit here, anxiously awaiting news of an appointment date. I pray, and ask for your prayers, that it is before my husband deploys and that he can be there. But more importantly, that this precious gift in my belly is okay.
I will allow myself to feel anxious about the appointment, but the rest I have to give up to God. Through everything today, and even in my dreariest moments, I couldn't stop thinking about the hymn, "It is well with my soul." It was penned by a man who faced immense personal tragedy. (Click the title below if you'd like to hear it on YouTube).
When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll
Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
When sorrows like sea billows roll
Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
There is no better example of faith with both eyes open, and from this, I take my cue.
With love and a grateful heart.
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
Three Deer
In our family, we love deer. It is true my husband hunts them, but we give thanks for the food they provide and don't let any go to waste. The hunting isn't about the killing either. My husband could spend hours sitting in the woods, just watching the animals in their natural habitat. He sets up trail cameras to watch them, and we've viewed wonderful moments like a Momma dropping an apple on her baby's head to get it to eat. Really, deer are very special to us.
In fact, on our wedding day back in 2013, my husband and I were a little distracted, but all of our guests spotted three deer on the backside of the country estate in Nashville where we married,
watching over us on our special day. We felt blessed, and fancied they were my husband's late father, and my late aunt and grandfather.
Since then, we have decorated our home to show how we honor deer, to include a stuffed animal deer in my son's room, and crib sheets and deer portraiture in the baby's nursery.
Two weeks ago, when we traveled to Massachusetts to visit Hailey's grave for the first time since we buried her, my husband and I were both hoping for a sign of some sort that our daughter was with us. We were there, in part, for my husband to spend some time with Hailey before deploying halfway around the world. We each took our turns, laying facedown on her grave, bawling our eyes out as we tried to cradle her precious body in our arms despite the earth between us. I know I asked our guardian angel to watch over and protect her Daddy while he is in harm's way. I think my husband sneakily ordered Hailey to instead focus her attention on watching over me, our son and the baby in my belly back home.
We left this beautiful flower arrangement at Hailey's grave, lovingly and freely designed and provided
by an old high school classmate of mine. (I swear the photo doesn't do it justice, but I was already crying when I took it!). And then we prepared to leave. As I turned the car on and began to slowly drive away from our daughter's resting spot, I felt more than a little sad. I longed to feel Hailey close to me, to feel in some way that she was with us that day. There were a few hymns that I always used to play for her to help bring comfort: one was His Eye Is On the Sparrow. And so I'd kept my eye out for little birds that might land nearby. But really, in my heart of hearts, I'd wished to see majestic deer like the ones who had blessed our wedding day.
As I steered the car around the winding, paved alleyways that led out of the cemetery, a flicker of movement amid the tombstones ahead caught my eye. It was approaching 8 p.m., dark storm clouds were rolling in and I thought, surely it couldn't be! But just ahead, I spotted one deer. Then a second, and then a third. Our three deer! Elated, I called out and drew my husband's attention. He lit up, admitting to me he'd been hoping we'd see some deer near our daughter, just like I had. His father, my grandfather and my aunt...our three deer watching over our little dear. We both felt so thankful to God, and packed this moment of light away in our souls as we prepare to face some tough days ahead.
With love.
In fact, on our wedding day back in 2013, my husband and I were a little distracted, but all of our guests spotted three deer on the backside of the country estate in Nashville where we married, watching over us on our special day. We felt blessed, and fancied they were my husband's late father, and my late aunt and grandfather.
Since then, we have decorated our home to show how we honor deer, to include a stuffed animal deer in my son's room, and crib sheets and deer portraiture in the baby's nursery.
Two weeks ago, when we traveled to Massachusetts to visit Hailey's grave for the first time since we buried her, my husband and I were both hoping for a sign of some sort that our daughter was with us. We were there, in part, for my husband to spend some time with Hailey before deploying halfway around the world. We each took our turns, laying facedown on her grave, bawling our eyes out as we tried to cradle her precious body in our arms despite the earth between us. I know I asked our guardian angel to watch over and protect her Daddy while he is in harm's way. I think my husband sneakily ordered Hailey to instead focus her attention on watching over me, our son and the baby in my belly back home.
We left this beautiful flower arrangement at Hailey's grave, lovingly and freely designed and provided
As I steered the car around the winding, paved alleyways that led out of the cemetery, a flicker of movement amid the tombstones ahead caught my eye. It was approaching 8 p.m., dark storm clouds were rolling in and I thought, surely it couldn't be! But just ahead, I spotted one deer. Then a second, and then a third. Our three deer! Elated, I called out and drew my husband's attention. He lit up, admitting to me he'd been hoping we'd see some deer near our daughter, just like I had. His father, my grandfather and my aunt...our three deer watching over our little dear. We both felt so thankful to God, and packed this moment of light away in our souls as we prepare to face some tough days ahead.
With love.
Wednesday, June 7, 2017
Mixed Emotions
The most important thing my husband and I needed to know was that our baby did not have Hailey's syndrome. We were so incredibly thankful and overjoyed when we found out this pregnancy is in the clear. It's interesting to me...when the genetic counselor first talked to us about the syndrome and told us the odds for future pregnancies were risky, I expected her to say they were 50/50 or worse. When she told us it was a 25% chance with each pregnancy, I thought, well, that isn't so bad! I mean, of course you hope the bad odds are as low as possible and I sure would have appreciated them being even lower...but I thought, my tender, aching heart can brave a 75% success rate of a healthy baby.
We hoped for the best. We tried to take nothing for granted. I prayed the Lord wouldn't ask me to give up two children in a row. Sadly, I've heard of others who, even with 1 in 4 odds like us, still have borne multiple effected pregnancies in a row. My heart aches for these folks. Finding out this baby was healthy was such a gift, and I prayed my thanks to the Lord, and to Hailey. And then we settled in to wait the few additional days it would take us to hear back about the chromosomal analysis, which would reveal something like Down Syndrome, as well as the gender of the baby. I reminded my husbanded we still needed to pray that this child be protected from any of the more common anomalies that could still occur, and my husband knew I was also praying that baby #3 was a girl.
It isn't that I don't love having a son or wouldn't want another one. The most important thing to me is the baby's health. But selfishly, and for the sake of my own grieving process, I thought my life would be a lot harder if I only had a daughter in Heaven, and not here on Earth. I still have all of the beautiful baby girl clothes I had hoped to dress Hailey in, and the dreams of fostering a close mother and daughter relationship like the one I have with my Mom (and now, my mother-in-law as well). I also knew one of the hardest things for my husband in losing Hailey was how he had looked forward to someday being a mess on her wedding day, as he walked her down the aisle to give her away. I wanted that for him, too. So every night, I lay in bed and fell asleep clasping the necklace around my neck with Hailey's name on it, praying she had picked out the perfect sibling.
The day before we moved to Georgia, I went in to the hospital for my final ultrasound with the high-risk doctors. Everything on the baby looked great, and it just so happened they had the results of the chromosomal analysis. All normal...AND...WE ARE HAVING ANOTHER GIRL!!!! I was so happy and thankful, I jumped out of the chair and hugged the genetic counselor, tears in my eyes. I couldn't get out of there fast enough to get home to tell my husband. Perhaps I should have had her write it down so I could find out the gender together with him, but I wanted to do something special to give him a big reveal, no matter whether it was a boy or a girl.
In the midst of our house being a mess, and the movers walking in and out to load all of our belongings on to the moving van, I gave my husband a giant gift bag. I made up some backstory/excuse about how it was a present for the Army program he was set to graduate from the following day before we hit the road to Georgia. But once he opened it, out floated a handful of pink balloons! He was as overjoyed as I was, and we both held each other, laughing and feeling completely blessed.
And then...we both felt kind of sad. And maybe a little bit guilty. We were so overjoyed to be having a healthy baby girl, but then felt like we needed Hailey to know we didn't love her any less because she hadn't been a healthy baby girl. Both of these emotions still war within me at times. I feel like this healthy baby girl is such a gift from Hailey (and God!), and I want her to know I don't take her for granted. I know I couldn't have done more for Hailey, but I still find myself wishing I could have held her a little bit longer, showed her even more love. I will spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of her and the gifts she helped bestow upon us.
I will admit, a few days later, when we arrived in Georgia and the moving van pulled up in front of our house to unload everything, I had a bit of a hard time. I'd done fine in Kansas as I'd watched all of Hailey's things being packed up, but watching them get carried into our new home made me cry. I don't know why, and am grateful the movers were incredibly kind about me being a little bit of a mess.
Now, as I walk through the upstairs and unpack boxes and put things away, I wonder what I will be able to face again, and what will be too hard. I LOVE the carseat we picked out for Hailey. It was brightly colorful and she only ever rode in it a handful of times. But one of those times was to the children's hospital emergency room, from which she never got to leave. That carseat sat empty in the backseat of my minivan for weeks, with the long-forgotten swaddle blanket stained with the funny color puke that sent us scrambling.
Those swaddle blankets...all the clean ones, anyway...I'm not sure I can use them again. There are certain items I more closely associate with Hailey. I think I can find my way to use the carseat again, but I think those brightly colored, beautiful pink swaddle blankets might be a bridge too far. She never got to wear too many of her clothes, so those are mostly okay...and my husband thinks Hailey might appreciate having her little sister wear some of her hand-me-downs. That thought made me smile a little.
As for the burp cloths we made by hand...I don't think I could part with those. And even though Hailey never spent a single night in her nursery, we made her bedding by hand as well. I'm still not sure I can reuse it. Not because I associate it so much with Hailey while she was actually alive, but because I link it in my mind to what now feels like the naive joy with which I labored over every detail of my first daughter's nursery. To be reminded of that hope and excitement...without knowing the awful sorrow that lay ahead of us...is often just too hard for me to think about.
So I guess all of this is a new stage of grief...having to go through Hailey's belongings...relive the past and the emotions attached to them, and try to figure out how to keep moving forward. Today, I found joy in the fact that since we are no longer living in on-post housing but rather a house we bought, I get to paint the nursery! My husband isn't convinced on the color yet, but he is humoring me. It's navy blue and he thinks it is too dark, but I told him it'd make the white furniture and the brightly-colored decor POP in a very cheerful way.
In closing, I don't want anything in this post to reflect that we aren't completely grateful to be having a healthy baby. What I am trying to show is that grief is complicated, and that even when you receive the most joyous news you ever could pray for, the grief still finds a way in. I've found that happiness and sadness are not mutually exclusive, but can live alongside each other in your heart. And that it is okay.
Once again, with love and gratitude.
We hoped for the best. We tried to take nothing for granted. I prayed the Lord wouldn't ask me to give up two children in a row. Sadly, I've heard of others who, even with 1 in 4 odds like us, still have borne multiple effected pregnancies in a row. My heart aches for these folks. Finding out this baby was healthy was such a gift, and I prayed my thanks to the Lord, and to Hailey. And then we settled in to wait the few additional days it would take us to hear back about the chromosomal analysis, which would reveal something like Down Syndrome, as well as the gender of the baby. I reminded my husbanded we still needed to pray that this child be protected from any of the more common anomalies that could still occur, and my husband knew I was also praying that baby #3 was a girl.
It isn't that I don't love having a son or wouldn't want another one. The most important thing to me is the baby's health. But selfishly, and for the sake of my own grieving process, I thought my life would be a lot harder if I only had a daughter in Heaven, and not here on Earth. I still have all of the beautiful baby girl clothes I had hoped to dress Hailey in, and the dreams of fostering a close mother and daughter relationship like the one I have with my Mom (and now, my mother-in-law as well). I also knew one of the hardest things for my husband in losing Hailey was how he had looked forward to someday being a mess on her wedding day, as he walked her down the aisle to give her away. I wanted that for him, too. So every night, I lay in bed and fell asleep clasping the necklace around my neck with Hailey's name on it, praying she had picked out the perfect sibling.
The day before we moved to Georgia, I went in to the hospital for my final ultrasound with the high-risk doctors. Everything on the baby looked great, and it just so happened they had the results of the chromosomal analysis. All normal...AND...WE ARE HAVING ANOTHER GIRL!!!! I was so happy and thankful, I jumped out of the chair and hugged the genetic counselor, tears in my eyes. I couldn't get out of there fast enough to get home to tell my husband. Perhaps I should have had her write it down so I could find out the gender together with him, but I wanted to do something special to give him a big reveal, no matter whether it was a boy or a girl.
In the midst of our house being a mess, and the movers walking in and out to load all of our belongings on to the moving van, I gave my husband a giant gift bag. I made up some backstory/excuse about how it was a present for the Army program he was set to graduate from the following day before we hit the road to Georgia. But once he opened it, out floated a handful of pink balloons! He was as overjoyed as I was, and we both held each other, laughing and feeling completely blessed.
And then...we both felt kind of sad. And maybe a little bit guilty. We were so overjoyed to be having a healthy baby girl, but then felt like we needed Hailey to know we didn't love her any less because she hadn't been a healthy baby girl. Both of these emotions still war within me at times. I feel like this healthy baby girl is such a gift from Hailey (and God!), and I want her to know I don't take her for granted. I know I couldn't have done more for Hailey, but I still find myself wishing I could have held her a little bit longer, showed her even more love. I will spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of her and the gifts she helped bestow upon us.
I will admit, a few days later, when we arrived in Georgia and the moving van pulled up in front of our house to unload everything, I had a bit of a hard time. I'd done fine in Kansas as I'd watched all of Hailey's things being packed up, but watching them get carried into our new home made me cry. I don't know why, and am grateful the movers were incredibly kind about me being a little bit of a mess.
Now, as I walk through the upstairs and unpack boxes and put things away, I wonder what I will be able to face again, and what will be too hard. I LOVE the carseat we picked out for Hailey. It was brightly colorful and she only ever rode in it a handful of times. But one of those times was to the children's hospital emergency room, from which she never got to leave. That carseat sat empty in the backseat of my minivan for weeks, with the long-forgotten swaddle blanket stained with the funny color puke that sent us scrambling.
Those swaddle blankets...all the clean ones, anyway...I'm not sure I can use them again. There are certain items I more closely associate with Hailey. I think I can find my way to use the carseat again, but I think those brightly colored, beautiful pink swaddle blankets might be a bridge too far. She never got to wear too many of her clothes, so those are mostly okay...and my husband thinks Hailey might appreciate having her little sister wear some of her hand-me-downs. That thought made me smile a little.
As for the burp cloths we made by hand...I don't think I could part with those. And even though Hailey never spent a single night in her nursery, we made her bedding by hand as well. I'm still not sure I can reuse it. Not because I associate it so much with Hailey while she was actually alive, but because I link it in my mind to what now feels like the naive joy with which I labored over every detail of my first daughter's nursery. To be reminded of that hope and excitement...without knowing the awful sorrow that lay ahead of us...is often just too hard for me to think about.
So I guess all of this is a new stage of grief...having to go through Hailey's belongings...relive the past and the emotions attached to them, and try to figure out how to keep moving forward. Today, I found joy in the fact that since we are no longer living in on-post housing but rather a house we bought, I get to paint the nursery! My husband isn't convinced on the color yet, but he is humoring me. It's navy blue and he thinks it is too dark, but I told him it'd make the white furniture and the brightly-colored decor POP in a very cheerful way.
In closing, I don't want anything in this post to reflect that we aren't completely grateful to be having a healthy baby. What I am trying to show is that grief is complicated, and that even when you receive the most joyous news you ever could pray for, the grief still finds a way in. I've found that happiness and sadness are not mutually exclusive, but can live alongside each other in your heart. And that it is okay.
Once again, with love and gratitude.
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